


Outcasts and Outlands

by JacobFlood



Series: The Gylhain-verse [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Forsworn, Gen, Multi, Thalmor, excessive amounts of original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 46
Words: 93,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacobFlood/pseuds/JacobFlood
Summary: Nothing in life goes easy once you've met the Dragonborn. Join the battered hero and her increasingly mismatched allies—including an ex-Thalmor agent, an old war foe, and an ambitious young Archmage—as they foil a vengeful trap, hunt down an assassin, and fall through worlds to halt a twisted invasion. Three story arcs, written a couple of years ago so the early chapters are a bit rusty.





	1. Prologue: Meeting of Minds

Many years later, sharing a bottle with a mismatched group in a dank manor house, as they waited out the greatest manhunt in living memory, Dar’epha would relate the story of how she met the Dragonborn. Before beginning, she would delay, scratch at her nose and pretend there was something between her teeth in urgent need of extraction. Eventually, she would begin. Before long, she would be smiling.

* * *

 

“. . . and there I was, the place fillin up with guards faster’n any of you’ve ever seen, the captain hisself on his way, my cover completely blown, with only seconds to go before the prospect of bein clapped in irons and led to the block would be the only option.”

Dar’epha leaned back in her chair, savouring the reactions of her audience. Erik was a little slack-jawed, his eyes wide and his hands grasping the edge of the table. Sam wore a small smirk, his eyebrows raised in what could have been disbelief. The amiable Breton hadn’t called her out on any of her exaggerations yet, but she gave him no time for them nonetheless.

“So what did you do?” cut in Erik. The inn owner’s son was clearly relishing any second-hand experience of the world outside Rorikstead that he could bend his ears towards. A big Nord, but with the face and actions closer to that of a child.

Dar’epha folded her paws behind her head, using the movement to pull back the hood of her disguise: that of a Vigilant of Stendarr, filched from one staying Solitude while he’d slumbered. It had seen her all the way to the Frostfruit Inn without any trouble. The guards didn’t like to bother the Vigilants if they could help it.

“I climbed my way up the shelves and hid myself in the rafters,” she said. “And let me tell you, I’m still pickin those Gods-damned splinters out of my fur.”

She was about to follow it up with a titbit of a tale about how she’d rubbed the theft in the guard captain’s face afterwards, but it was then that the inn door opened and a gust of the night wind shivered over their table. Following it was a figure like nothing she’d seen before. They wore a mismatched selection of armour: high-quality ebony breastplate that seemed to suck in the light from around it; spiked gauntlets of an orcish make; and worn boots of simple iron that made no sound as they trod across the floorboards. But it was their helm that received the most attention from the patrons of the inn, for it was carved in the likeness of Clavicus Vile, curved horns protruding from the forehead. An evil-faced mace was at their hip and on their left arm was an odd convex shield that looked like it had been dug out of Dwemer ruin.

Dar’epha was prepared for trouble, one hand dropping towards one of her daggers, considering perhaps that this figure was a crazy daedra worshipper, or some advanced variety of Forsworn. She’d also pegged them for an orc, given their large build. But the removal of that horrid helmet revealed a woman of Breton origin, her brown hair cut messily short, and her expression not unfriendly.

Sam rose from his seat and bounded towards the newcomer. After some conversation Dar’epha couldn’t quite hear and a very careful handshake, the woman joined the others at their table. Sam’s grin was wide as the woman sat down.

“Erik, Dar’epha, we are truly in illustrious company tonight. This is—”

But he got no further, for Erik spoke. “I know who you are,” he said, awe creeping onto his face. “I was in Whiterun when that dragon got released. You’re the one who killed Alduin. You’re the Dragonborn.” There was silence around the table.

“Please,” said the hero of the songs, “none of that Dovahkiin business. Call me Gylhain. It is my name, after all.”

Dar’epha tried to get her mouth working again. They’d all heard the stories, of course. How she’d ridden a dragon, how she’d walked the halls of Sovngarde, how she’d united the Companions, how she’d massacred her way out of Cidhna Mine.

“I thought you were helpin the Legion with the war,” she managed to say eventually. “Can’t imagine that’s won you a bunch of new friends.”

Gylhain’s brow furrowed. “True enough. But I’m doing what’s right. The Stormcloaks may have admirable passion for their homeland, but that’s not going to help when the Dominion comes knocking. And I’m perfectly placed to get Elisif bring in some reforms that’ll help everyone in Skyrim.”

Dar’epha had heard that last bit spoken of among the downtrodden. The Dunmer, Khajiit, and Argonians of Skyrim were beginning to regard this figure as somewhat of a hero. She couldn’t help but smile. An intelligent, well-spoken foreign woman? No wonder she was such a divisive figure. The Stormcloaks would do well to fear her. Dar’epha suddenly wanted to see for herself whether the Dragonborn could fight as well as the stories claimed.

Erik looked to be on the verge of a poorly framed rebuttal, when Sam spoke again.

“Enough politics,” he said. “How about something more interesting? A drinking contest, perhaps?” He looked pointedly at Gylhain. Erik excused himself quickly, muttering something about seeing how his father was getting along. Gylhain looked directly at Dar’epha, who felt suddenly less secure in herself than ever before.

“I’m game if you are, Vigilant,” said the Dragonborn.

Dar’epha chuckled, remembering her Guild uniform beneath the robes. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Sam clapped his hands with joy and called out for the finest drinks to be brought and added to his tab. Dar’epha sat back, scrutinising Gylhain’s face, and waited for the night to truly begin.

* * *

 

When Dar’epha awoke nothing existed but hazy filtered light, the world rendered thickly yellow. With a fumble she tore off her stolen hood, which had been yanked down over her eyes. The sky was a uniform grey. It felt like late morning, but she knew not of what day. Her back and legs were rent with aches, as she was slumped against something pitted and stony. It was, in fact, Gjukar’s Monument, which she recognised from previous travels.

Squinting upwards, she tried to gain hold of any memory of the previous night. Nights? The tatters of her Vigilant robes were tied in a sash around her waist, revealing her Guild armour. Her gloves were sticky with something, and there were flakes of ash and bread tangled in her braids, most of which were unsalvageable. She spent several minutes tugging them all free to get her hair back to its loose state. She left the robes in scraps by the monument.

Despite its greyness, the sky seemed too bright to her and a dull thudding became noticeable at the back of her skull. Stumbling upwards, she headed north-west until she hit the road, not intent on heading anywhere in particular, but distantly knowing that Rorikstead was not that far away.

Rounding a corner just outside of town, she encountered Gylhain standing over the body of a giant. The woman was hunched over, her arms wide, edging towards a goat that was shying close to the corpse. Noticing Dar’epha, she smiled and held up a hand as a waiting signal. The Dragonborn darted forward. In a flurry of movement, she had the goat tucked under one arm. She seemed none the worse for wear, her movements and mannerisms unaffected by what they had undergone.

“Morning!” exclaimed Gylhain. “Some night, huh? Where did you end up?”

Dar’epha gestured without interest back the way she’d come. She found herself smiling despite the pain in her head. “What . . . what are you doin?”

“Seems there was a misunderstanding with a farmer and this here goat and this here giant as a result of our actions last night. I’m trying to resolve everybody’s grievances, but this fellow wasn’t listening to reason.”

“Right . . .” Dar’epha was momentarily lost for words. Who fought giants in the morning like it was no trouble? Not to mention while hungover? Rubbing her brow, she said, “D’you remember anythin from last night? I’ve a hunch it might’ve gotten even more crazier than usual for me.”

“And I’ve a hunch it was a few nights strung together,” came Gylhain’s reply. “But no, I don’t remember anything solid. Sorry.”

Dar’epha rolled her shoulders and emitted a low grunt. “S’pose this ain’t the first time this has happened to you?”

Gylhain laughed, the shaking movement causing the goat under her arm to bleat a little. “Kind of goes with the territory, doesn’t it?” She paused for a moment, frowning. “I do have a vague recollection of you pulling off some amazing throws with those daggers, though.” She gestured at Dar’epha’s twin glass blades, miraculously still at her belt. “You any good with a bow?”

“Sure,” shrugged Dar’epha. “Though I ain’t had my paws on one in a while.”

A hopeful smile broke out across Gylhain’s face. “There’s a ruin to the north I’ve been meaning to take a look into for a while now. Do you want to come with me? I can always use someone competent along.”

Dar’epha gave a surprised frown. She wasn’t used to this sort of offer. There was always a betrayal at the end, her ‘partners’ playing her for a sucker or leaving her to take the fall. Things had looked up since she’d joined the Guild, though, and she didn’t want to blow that winning streak. But the Dragonborn wouldn’t be in it for the gold, and—by reputation at least—didn’t seem the type to engage in a spot of betrayal. Although despite helping people in every hold, she was known for being somewhat flippant with the law; which, if anything, endeared her to Dar’epha even more. She decided to take the risk.

“Explore a dangerous ruin with someone I barely know? Count me in!”

The Dragonborn’s grin was infectious, and Dar’epha found herself echoing the expression.

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Gylhain. “I have to return this goat and see if I can find Sam, but we could meet in Dragon’s Bridge in . . . say, four or five days? You’ve probably got some Guild business to wrap up first, right?”

Dar’epha started a little. “The armour’s a dead giveaway, huh?”

Gylhain was still smiling. “Yeah. You’re new, right? I did them a favour a while back, they keep me in the loop.”

“You did ’em a favour?” Dar’epha asked. The Dragonborn had worked with or for the Thieves Guild and nobody had thought to mention it to her? “I ain’t heard anythin about that.”

Gylhain’s smile lessened a small amount. “If you’re interested, ask Brynjolf about what happened to Mercer Frey. He knows it better than anyone.”

Dar’epha sighed. Always more stories. “Dragon’s Bridge, then?”

“Yes. See you there.” The Dragonborn crouched to pick up her helmet, tucked that under the other arm, and turned north towards Rorikstead, off to see a man about a goat.


	2. Out of Windhelm

They delved into the ruins and then some. Over the following three months, Dar’epha and Gylhain took Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, and the Pale by storm. They cleared caves and ancient places of all sorts; slayed vampires, trolls, draugr, and even a few Falmer during a tense expedition into the Dwemer ruin of Mzinchaleft. They’d run short of food and been forced to turn back before they could get to what Gylhain wanted to show her new friend: Blackreach. She promised there’d be another time.

The personal highlight for Dar’epha had been, when exploring the coast north-west of Dawnstar, they’d found a half-submerged shipwreck and spent a joyful few days diving through the freezing water for the sunken cargo. They found little of value, but it didn’t matter. On the last day there, as they emerged from the water, they encountered a snow bear, and they were forced to frantically grab their gear and flee in their underclothes. Gylhain later lit a fire with one of her dragon shouts to get the chill out of their bones.

Sadly, it couldn’t last. While drinking one evening at the Nightgate Inn, planning on heading north into Winterhold, a courier had burst in from the cold. Somehow, General Tullius had tracked down Gylhain, and they needed her for another push in the war. They could have ordered her—she had formally enlisted in the Legion and was therefore bound by military hierarchy—but clearly they felt some respect was due to the Dragonborn. Regardless, Gylhain had to leave. With a quick smile and an open invitation to her house in Whiterun, she was gone.

Dar’epha went back to the Guild, losing herself in job after job, crime after crime. Gylhain got married, to someone named Angi. They took up residence in Honeyside in Riften. Dar’epha would drift in to visit occasionally, despite the internal sharpness she’d felt upon hearing of the matrimony. But with the civil war still in full swing, Gylhain was never around, and Dar’epha would end up dining with Angi, sometimes in addition to the Dragonborn’s housecarl, Iona. Angi was a practical woman, hardy and sometimes taciturn, but Dar’epha enjoyed her company nonetheless.

Eventually, word filtered down to Riften that the civil war was over; the siege of Windhelm was broken and Ulfric Stormcloak had been slain by the Dragonborn herself. As soon as Delvin had ascertained there was work for them in that city, Dar’epha had got herself on a job there, hoping to run into Gylhain still lingering in the fallen stronghold.

Things had not gone according to plan.

* * *

 

Dar’epha was entering her second evening in Windhelm’s jail. At first she’d taken it as an excuse for a rest, dozing in the hay provided, pulling faces at the guards, trading insults with the half-drunk Dunmer in the next cell. Despite the seeming absence of Gylhain from the city, the job itself had gone off without a hitch; it was what had happened on her way out that had gone sour.

Viola Giordano had been in the Grey Quarter again, spouting her anti-Dunmer babble. With none of the elves brave enough to talk back, knowing the guards would come down hard on them if they made even the tiniest move towards a Nord, it had fallen to Dar’epha. She’d lashed out, her claws raking at Viola’s face.

She’d thought nothing of it, left the racist scum staggering in disbelief in the snow. But two hired thugs had tried to corner her behind the stables before she could leave. Cheap to hire and thus easy to dispatch. But there was a principle at stake. Storming back into the city, she’d found Viola easily enough, complaining loudly to a guardsman about her assault. From a distance, Dar’epha had taken out one of her daggers and let fly. Unfortunately, in her rage she had failed to take good account of her footing, and at the last second her boot slipped on the icy stones. The dagger landed in Viola’s shoulder instead of her neck, and Dar’epha soon found herself surrounded by Imperial guards. Bitterly she decided to surrender and bide her time; if there was a prison that could hold her, then she wasn’t worthy of her Guild membership.

The room outside the cells contained nothing more than a stack of hay—in case any of the cellmates needed new bedding—and a solitary guard in a solitary chair. He was dozing in the dreariness of his current post. Reaching her hand into her braided hair, Dar’epha retrieved what she’d stashed there earlier: one lockpick. One was all she needed.

Time, then, to escape. Besides, the prison-issue clothes were beginning to irritate her fur. She went to work on the lock, glancing up at the guard every few seconds to ensure he hadn’t woken up. Lockpicking was one of Dar’epha’s primary skills, and it wasn’t long before she had a paw on a door-bar, ready to pull it open. Unfortunately for her escape plan, as the door swung inwards it made a highly audible scraping sound. The guard bolted into wakefulness, his eyes wide. He stood and drew his sword in one motion, reacting fast to the situation. But Dar’epha was faster.

She rushed out of the cell, keeping low, and before the guard could get in a swing she’d swiped his legs out from under him. Still moving faster than almost any human could hope to, she sidestepped his falling body and delivered a whack to the back of the guard’s head. The increased speed at which the head in question hit the stone floor was enough to blast him into unconsciousness. Dar’epha hoped that his helmet had protected him from the worst—the Guild had a thing about killing while on a job.

The Dunmer in the other cell had also come awake at the sound of the scraping door, and now made himself known.

“There’s no way you can make it out of here alive, you know.” His voice was low and even, filled with defeat and loss.

Dar’epha hefted the guard’s sword and jingled the prison keys in her other paw. “So you won’t be wantin me to let you out then?”

The Dunmer tapped his fingers against the bars. “Why? They’d cut me down and say I asked for it. Better to just serve my time. That way I can see my family again.”

“Sooner or later you’re gonna have to take a stand ’gainst these Nords,” said Dar’epha.

“Perhaps,” replied the Dunmer. “But not today.”

“Now’s your best time!” she exclaimed, feeling a rising anger at the dark elf’s defeatist attitude. “Ulfric’s dead, this damn town’s not gonna get better unless you push it.”

The Dunmer frowned. “What should we do?” he asked. “Go around throwing daggers at civilians?”

“Huh. She was askin for it.”

“You cannot understand our plight,” said the prisoner. “If you are going, do so. And if you work a miracle and escape this place, fare you well.”

Dar’epha grunted with some respect, or as much as she was capable of. “Same to you,” she said.

She turned away: the time had come for her to quit the prison, and all of Eastmarch if she had her way. Which, of course, she would. She advanced towards the exit, opened the door and cautiously made her way up the corridor towards the barracks. The next part of her escape plan pretty much hinged on pure luck: if there were too many guards in their barracks, she knew she would be cut down or subdued before finding an exit.

But the Divines must have smiled on Dar’epha that day, for when she entered the room it was completely empty. Almost unable to believe her luck, she went to work. There was only one door—other than the one she’d just come through—and that led straight into the main hall of the Palace of the Kings. Bursting out in front of Jarl Brunwulf and his assorted guards and guests wouldn’t go down too well, she thought. So she consigned herself to the only other option: out one of the windows.

Dropping the stolen sword on a bed, she then dragged that bed across to block the door and prevent an untimely interruption. Panting with the effort, she turned to examine if there was anything of use in the room she could take with her. Her sharp eyes immediately picked out a large chest in one corner. In it she discovered her confiscated belongings: her Guild outfit, thankfully unblemished—at least, no more than it had been already; a small and unfortunately light coin pouch; the shipping manifests that had been the target of her job; and only one glass dagger. Although she was put out at having only one of her favoured weapons, she got a chuckle out of imagining the other still embedded in Viola’s shoulder.

She quickly stripped off the ragged prison robes and donned her Guild armour. The dagger went through her belt, the coin pouch and manifests were tucked away in various pockets. She took a wooden bowl from one of the guard’s bedside tables and hurled it through the window closest to the way she’d come in. The glass shattered easily, and within two seconds, Dar’epha had leapt up from a bed to the sill and, taking a quick look, she managed the high fall with ease, landing on all fours.

Dashing her hopes that the exit would somehow land her in the docks, instead she found herself in the courtyard in front of the palace. A location in full view of the guards standing at their posts on either side of the doors. She made a mental note to ask Delvin if the Guild could compile some sort of list of how to escape each hold’s jail in the most convenient way.

One of the guards shouted, “By the order of the—”

But Dar’epha was already moving and heard no more. Her feet moved faster across the stones than she thought they’d ever moved before, faster than when she escaped the giants at Guldun Rock, faster than when she’d seen her first dragon. Rounding Candlehearth Hall, she heard more guards behind her and tried to pick up her pace. She slid through the city doors, getting through in just enough time to dodge an arrow, which instead rebounded off the metal.

Out of Windhelm, but not out of trouble. On the bridge she espied more guards advancing from the other end. But there was still a way, always a way, but not one she would have normally considered. Khajiits and water normally didn’t get along, but today . . .

“To Oblivion with the lot of you,” she growled. In one short leap she had climbed the stairs leading up to the precipice. Curling her toes over the edge as the guards closed in, she jumped.

* * *

 

About half an hour later, after the guards had given up on shooting arrows down into the dark water and gone back to the warmth of their watch-fires, Alfarinn the carriage driver was surprised to encounter a shivering and very bedraggled Khajiit stumbling up to his vehicle.

“I’ll pay you double,” she said, “just get me to Riften, fast.”

Alfarinn had learned long ago not to ask questions of his clients.

“Climb in,” he said. “There’s a blanket in the back, looks like you might need it.”

“Thanks.”

As she’d hit the surface of the White River and gone down, Dar’epha had decided what she was going to do. It had been too long since she’d gotten into a scrape with a certain pretty Breton woman alongside. It was time she paid a visit to her old friend the Dragonborn.


	3. Trail of the Dovahkiin

The sun was high when Dar’epha reached Riften, rattled and bruised from the journey, but she could not see the light source through the thick cloud that hung over the city. She had not been able to get the chill out of her extremities, but she left the blanket in the back of the carriage and paid Alfarinn well more than what she owed him—which amounted to every piece of coin she had left. There would always be more to steal somewhere else.

She had him drop her off not outside the gate, but further along to the west, close to the lake. Hugging her arms in close to her body, she climbed the exterior stairs up towards Honeyside. There was no need to knock, as Gylhain’s housecarl, Iona, was on the balcony at the tanning rack, working at a fresh wolf pelt. Reluctantly taking her eyes off her work, the woman smiled at Dar’epha.

“Run into a little trouble?” she asked.

The Khajiit shivered a little without meaning to. She forced a small laugh. “I guess you could say that, yeah.”

Iona chuckled. She wiped her hands and pulled a strand of her red hair out of her eyes. Her clothes were simple and her hardy boots worn from the road, but her face was bright and happy. If this was not the life she had wanted, she gave no sign of it.

“Come inside,” she said. “Angi’s got a stew on.”

Angi’s cooking was the best Dar’epha had encountered in Skyrim or anywhere. Her chills forgotten, she followed Iona into the home. Shying quickly through the main bedroom, they turned the corner and found Angi over the fire, face creased as she concentrated on her work. When she saw Dar’epha, however, she smiled and pulled her into an embrace.

“Always good to have you safe back here,” said the Dragonborn’s wife. The couple had met, as far as Dar’epha could ascertain, somewhere in the mountains near Falkreath, where Angi had been living alone in a hut. Why had never been explained, at least not to Dar’epha. But the woman was a mean archer, and Dar’epha had on a couple of occasions seen her pull off a shot that would put her own skills to shame.

When they were seated around the table, Dar’epha related, inbetween gulps of stew, the story of what had occurred in Windhelm. Angi smiled and frowned at all the appropriate points, but Iona was more critical.

“You needn’t have resorted to violence,” she said. “Even someone like Viola can listen to reason.”

Angi gave a bitter chuckle. “That sort never does. Only cure is a bit of something sharp.” She frowned for a moment. “Though it is probably best that you didn’t kill her.”

“I didn’t know you knew anybody from Windhelm,” wondered Iona.

“I don’t,” came Angi’s reply. “But I know that type.” There was silence at the table until she said, “I guess that means you won’t be taking in jobs in Windhelm for a while, then?”

“Not if I can damn well help it,” mumbled Dar’epha through a mouthful. She swallowed heavily. “Actually, I was looking for Gylhain.”

“You and everybody else,” grumbled Iona, setting about clearing the table.

“What d’you mean?”

Angi answered. “We haven’t seen her for a week or so. She came home after the war ended, spent some time, but she was restless. She was talking about moving somewhere else, wouldn’t say where.”

Dar’epha raised her eyebrows. “But this place is fuckin marvellous!”

It was true. Gylhain and Angi, with Iona’s help, had turned Honeyside into the finest home Dar’epha had ever seen. There was warmth within those walls, comfort to be found of the darkest and coldest of nights.

“That’s what I told her,” agreed Iona.

Angi was looking down at the table, running her fingers across the thick wood. “I don’t know,” she said. “She talked about wanting to move out of the city, somewhere away from it all. But she had to go see Tullius, some honour ceremony for her services to the Legion. We haven’t heard from her yet, but you know her, she disappears all the time. Just sit tight, she’ll turn up eventually.”

“Probably just found some wrongs that needed rightin,” said Dar’epha.

“Exactly. You should lay low after Windhelm anyway.”

Dar’epha chuckled. “Yeah, right.” She eased herself up from the table and stretched, feeling the aches of the job assert themselves.

“I gotta check in with the Guild,” she said. “Cheers for the stew.”

Their farewells were short; there was always the knowledge that Dar’epha would be back soon enough for more warm meals and tall tales. Out the other door she went, and into the glorious web of alliances and betrayals that was Riften. Under new leadership since the end of the war; Maven Black-Briar now sat on the Jarl’s throne. To the benefit of the Guild, was the talk beneath the city. Dar’epha was more sceptical. That woman worked only towards her own ends and would be more than happy to cast aside the Guild if such an action served her purposes.

Dar’epha moved through the market, nodding and smiling at those her organisation was on good terms with, ignoring those with whom they weren’t. Soon she was at the hidden entrance to the cistern and had slipped down the ladder to her comrades in crime.

She smiled at Sapphire—probably her closest friend in the Guild—clapped Niruin on the back, and progressed smiling through to the Ragged Flagon. Despite the dim light, she always found a sense of warmth in the Guild’s hideout. Filled with people from all walks of life, all of them sharing a common disregard for the law. As good a family as Dar’epha could have found anywhere. Still, there was no Gylhain. The Dragonborn had done some work for the Guild before Dar’epha’s time, but was now barely considered a member, only popping down when she had something nice to fence. Some of the newer Guild members knew nothing of Gylhain’s connection at all.

In the Flagon, Dirge was arguing loudly with Vekel over some trifle, Vex watching on with the faint hint of a smile on her face. It faded as soon as the senior member noticed Dar’epha’s watching eyes.

Dar’epha went straight for Delvin. The shipping manifests that had been the target of her job in Windhelm had survived her fall into the White River, thanks to being wrapped in oilskin. She sat opposite him and slid the manifests over, unable to keep the smirk of a successful job off her face.

“Everything go well?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Prob’ly best I don’t head back there for a while.”

He chuckled. “We were wonderin what was takin you so long.”

She waved it aside with a paw. “Any sign of Gylhain?” she asked. “Angi said it’s been a good week since she’s been home.”

“Ain’t unusual, you know,” was Delvin’s reply.

“Yeah, I know. Still.”

It was Delvin’s turn to shrug. “Talk to Brynjolf, he might know somethin I don’t. Unlikely as that may sound.”

Dar’epha smiled, thanked him, and rose. Brynjolf was back in the cistern, hunched over the Guild Master’s desk, trying to make sense of a sheaf of papers. He looked up at Dar’epha with shining eyes, obviously grateful for the distraction.

“What can I do for you, lass?” he asked. “Locks still slippin open under your delicate touch?”

“Always. You heard anythin’ of Gyl? I was hopin to see her.”

Brynjolf shook his head. “Nothin on my end, lass. There was word of some disturbances over in Whiterun, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had somethin to do with that.”

Dar’epha frowned. “What sort of disturbances?” She didn’t know whether that was Guild code for something she was unfamiliar with.

Brynjolf scratched at his beard a moment before continuing. “I didn’t want to tell Angi for worryin her. But word is, the guards turned up some bodies at Gyl’s house there. No sign of the lass herself, though.”

Dar’epha chewed this over. Corpses turning up where Gylhain was involved was certainly nothing unusual, and she was uniquely suited to handling any trouble of that sort. There was also no shortage of groups—despite the aid she’d given across the land—that would like nothing better than to see her corpse laid out on a funeral slab. Probably no cause for worry, but Dar’epha probably would anyway, a small amount, down at her core where nobody could see.

“Might head out there,” suggested Dar’epha. “If you’ve got nothin for me here, that is.”

Brynjolf looked in despair at the papers in front of him. “There’s a caravan raid I’d like you on,” he said. “But that’s still bein set up. Plenty of time for you be restin up.”

“In Gyl’s company? Not likely.”

Brynjolf gave a small laugh. “If you do find her, tell her to come by for a visit sometime soon.”

Before she turned away, Dar’epha thought of another question.

“These bodies, how long ago did they turn up?”

“Four, maybe five days,” said Brynjolf. “Accordin to my information, anyway.”

“Reliable?”

Brynjolf tilted his hand back and forth in a way that signified _maybe, maybe not._

She drifted away, towards the chest at the foot of her bed. She picked the lock—the strongest she could find, to keep her in practice—and removed a small pouch of coins. There was no telling what expenditures could arise in a world outside of Guild jobs; those were predictable: bribery, specialist supplies, lookouts, security, and so on. With Gylhain, however, the future was always less certain.

Dar’epha gave a quick farewell to Sapphire, then shot up the ladder back into Riften, hoping that Alfarinn and his carriage were still around.


	4. The Hunted Mer

As she trod the last stretch towards up to Whiterun, Dar’epha tried to count the months since she’d seen Gylhain, and wondered how many world-changing actions the Dragonborn could have squeezed into that time. The rights of the non-humans had certainly improved: Dar’epha was let into the city without more than a sideways glance. The sunken prejudices of Skyrim couldn’t be dealt with overnight, but this was certainly a step in the right direction.

The sun was low in the west and the walls of Whiterun cast long shadows reaching almost to Breezehome, Gylhain’s first and smallest house. Dar’epha gave three sharp knocks on the door. There was no response. She tried again, fruitlessly.

“Looking for the Dovahkiin?” came a voice from behind her.

She turned to see a local guard, their full helmet hiding their expression, but their hands far enough away from their weapon to give Dar’epha some comfort. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“There was a fight inside, coupla days ago,” explained the guard.

“She was here, though,” said Dar’epha.

“Oh, sure,” said the guard. “She killed everybody before we could get involved. Let us take away the bodies, but said she’d deal with the rest herself. The Commander offered aid, but she turned him down.” The guard looked up towards the market. “First big crime we’ve had in months and we can’t investigate.”

Dar’epha managed a smile. “There’ll be some heads for you to crack soon enough, I reckon.”

“Yeah?” asked the guard. “I hope so. Have a good day, citizen.” They headed off to continue their rounds.

So Brynjolf’s report had been more or less correct. No doubt there would be more evidence inside, perhaps some clue as to where Gylhain had disappeared to, but there was no way Dar’epha could break into the house in the daylight. Too many witnesses, even for a Guild member. But, she considered, if the fight had been only a few days before, then the bodies of the fallen might still be interred in the Hall of the Dead.

Willing the light to fall faster, she trod up through the market as the merchants were packing up their stalls, slipping between the people and through to the next level of the city. She wondered if it was appropriate to knock before entering the Hall, and decided not to. Either way, the unlocked door yielded to her touch and she found herself in the fire-lighted room.

The roof stretched high, far higher than she thought there could be any possible use for. There was an iron door directly ahead of her that logic dictated would lead to the catacombs. But such a delving would be unnecessary, as one body still remained, lying to the left on a stone slab.

There was no sign of any resident priest, so Dar’epha approached. The plethora of candles lit nearby gave her more than enough light to determine the origins of the corpse. Despite the careful attentions of the priest, it was clear that the man—for such was the sex of the body—had fallen in violent conflict. One wound ran diagonally across his stomach, another opened his throat. But this was nothing out of the ordinary; it was the dead man’s attire that drew Dar’epha’s attention.

He was dressed in scraps of poorly-maintained fur, adorned with animal bones and teeth. Dark feathers and pieces of antler hung from his neck. The man was one of the Forsworn; a group who Gylhain had massacred plenty of in her time. Clearly enough for them to send a hit squad all the way to Whiterun for her. Dar’epha wondered how they had entered the city undetected until she saw the folded black robe on a bench nearby—the Forsworn had evidently covered up their accoutrements rather than discard them completely.

When the Forsworn were involved, carnage inevitably followed. Gylhain’s infiltration of their clan had won her no friends in the Reach, distrust remaining even after she turned upon those who had helped her escape Cidhna Mine. If they were after her again, Dar’epha had every intention of lending her aid. She was only concerned as to why Gyl hadn’t informed her wife what she was doing.

Cresting the steps on her way out of the Hall, she bumped shoulders with a tall figure. Staggering on that final step, she turned to spray vitriol at another ‘accidental’ Nord and was surprised to find herself looking up at the face of an Altmer. His features were narrow and his chin jutted out of the shadow of his dark hood. His robes were of fine quality, and Dar’epha did not think his obvious desire to keep his race hidden would have proved very successful.

Delayed by this analysis, she still managed to get some snarl in her tone when she said, “Watch where you’re goin, knife ears.”

The Altmer flinched back, fists clenched. Dar’epha made a dismissive hiss and moved away. It was quiet and dark enough now for a break in.

Back at Breezehome, she pressed herself back into the shadows until she was sure there were no guards in sight. Then she crouched in front of the door and got to work. Her tools made only the slightest of scraping noises as she fiddled her way past the Dragonborn’s admittedly strong lock. When the sound of success came, Dar’epha gave one last look around before easing the door open and ducking inside.

It was, of course, pitch black inside. But with a blink, Dar’epha switched to her hereditary night vision. The scars of Gylhain’s fight against the Forsworn were still clearly visible in the house. It looked like the owner had played host to a series of tavern brawls of increasing intensity. Furniture was upturned, the remains of a meal were stuck to the stairs, several weapons were scattered around and, most disturbingly, there were large bloodstains on the dining table and the floor. The smearing towards the front door indicated the removal of the bodies.

Investigating further, one hand on her dagger, she discovered similar chaos upstairs, with drawers pulled all the way out, the door to the spare bedroom completely shattered, and an additional bloodstain in the centre of the main double-bed. Dar’epha’s agitation was growing to new heights when she heard the front door swing open.

This time her dagger came fully into her hand. She trod silently out of the bedroom and saw a soft light coming from downstairs. She blinked away her night vision and got to where she could crouch and peer down at the lower level. There, a ball of magelight in his left hand, stood the Altmer she had bumped into outside the Hall of the Dead.

Despite her alliance with the Empire, if there was one group that hated Gylhain more than the Forsworn did, it was the Thalmor. Perhaps this was an undercover agent, seeking to trail the Dragonborn and bring about retribution. Perhaps the Thalmor were working with the Forsworn in some twisted partnership. Dar’epha was running through ways to take out the elf mage when he spoke.

“Khajiit,” he called out. “I know you are in here. I require your aid in seeking the Dovahkiin. I mean neither you nor her any harm.”

Dar’epha flattened herself into the shadows and tried to project her voice to a different part of the house. Her attempt met with no success whatsoever.

“Why should I believe anythin your Thalmor tongue comes out with?”

The magelight flickered for a moment, then was held to direct more light towards Dar’epha’s hiding place. She stood straight, ready to throw her dagger or leap sideways away from a spell.

“I am not Thalmor,” said the mer. “Nothing on the face of this world could convince me to return to their fold.”

“So you’re a traitor then. Just layerin on the trustworthiness, ain’t ya?”

“I may have once been a part of their organisation, yes,” explained the Altmer. “But I have now abandoned them. They seek my destruction and I theirs, which would, I believe, put myself and your Dovahkiin on the same side.”

“She ain’t mine, or anyone’s. Besides, she’s not here.”

“Evidently.” He looked around the room and sent a small thread of fire towards the wall. A torch blazed and he extinguished his magelight. “I only hope she has not met with misfortune.”

“She’s more the type to dish out the misfortune,” said Dar’epha with a hard grin.

“So I have heard.” He lit the torch on the opposite wall. “Tales of her deeds have reached even my homeland.”

“So what are you doin here then? Looking to meet the woman behind the legend?”

“In a sense, yes.” He tucked his hands behind his back and Dar’epha tensed, but he did no more than continue speaking. “I am hoping she is capable of all the tales say, for there are many seeking to end my life and I seek her help. I am willing to pay handsomely, of course.”

Dar’epha’s brows went up a little at the mention of gold. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, waving a hand at the empty house. “Nobody’s seen her in days.”

“Indeed,” said the elf, frowning. He turned back towards the entrance, where there was a note pinned to the inside of the door. Dar’epha frowned too, annoyed that she’d missed it upon her own entrance. The elf peered closer at the note and the dagger that held it there. “It appears to be addressed to you,” he said. “If your name is Dar’epha.”

Dar’epha cursed under her breath, sheathed her dagger, and descended the stairs.

“Try anything,” she said, “and I’ll gut you.”

The elf raised his hands palms outwards and stepped away to let her access the note. Unable to wrest the Dunmer dagger from where it was jammed so far in the wood, she tore the note down and moved closer to the torch, away from the Altmer, to read.

 _Dar’epha_ , the note began in a loose scrawl, clearly done in haste, getting messier as it went down the page.

_You’re not the only person I know who’d break in if I didn’t answer the door, but I trust this’ll reach you anyway. I’m sure you’ve heard about the business I got into with the Forsworn a while back, if I never told you the story myself. Their new leader is out for blood and was clever enough to get some of his people inside Whiterun’s walls. I took care of them but didn’t have time to clean up. I’m taking the fight to them and could use your help. If you’re interested, find Ainethach in Karthwasten, I’ll let him know where in the Reach I’ve set up camp._

_Don’t tell Angi. I’ll do it myself when this is dealt with. Hope to be killing Forsworn with you soon._

It was signed _Gylhain_ in an almost illegible scribble. Obviously she’d been in a hurry to get out the door.

Well, Dar’epha thought, it was to be expected. Adventure always seemed to find the Dragonborn whether she wanted it or not. Of course, she didn’t consider her decision for more than the briefest of instants. She folded up the note carefully and slid it into a pocket. It was only then that she remembered the Altmer and annoyance crept back into her features.

“It is from her, I take it,” he said.

“I suppose you’d be wantin to know where she is.”

“I do not seek conflict,” said the Altmer, “but I see no reason why we cannot travel together.”

Dar’epha ground her teeth together for a moment, calculating how quickly she could dispatch him if there was any trouble. Eventually, she nodded.

“Fine,” she said. “But you’re payin for the carriage.”

“By all means,” he said. He brushed back his hood and gave a short bow. His blonde hair was tied into a short ponytail and his eyes were a deep blue. “I am called Antario,” he said. “And you, if that note is correct, are Dar’epha. A pleasure, I’m sure.”

She grunted. “Not yet it ain’t. You need a weapon? Gyl’s got more’n enough to spare.”

Antario hesitated for a moment. “A sword would not go amiss.” Dar’epha started up the stairs. “A light one, if there is a choice,” he added.

She rummaged through drawers and found herself a glass blade to complement her remaining dagger. The blade itself was freezing to the touch and she thrust it in its scabbard as soon as she could. For the elf she pulled a curved guardless sword off the wall, its sheath simple brown leather.

When she returned downstairs and passed it to him, however, Antario’s eyes widened.

“An Akaviri sword,” he exclaimed. “These are highly prized. The Dovahkiin must have paid a high price for it.”

Dar’epha grunted again. “More’n likely she just found it in the back of a tomb somewhere.”

“There are riches contained within Skyrim’s deeps, or so it is told,” said Antario.

“True enough,” said Dar’epha. “If ya don’t mind the ancient dead yelling at you with the north wind. Now put your hood back up, we got a long way to go and plenty of racist Nords to get past.”


	5. Into the Reach

Dar’epha dozed most of the way to Karthwasten. The carriage driver’s fee had been steep, but Antario had paid it without complaint. Her opinion of him had risen just a little then, but not enough to bother engaging him in any further conversation. When they alighted in the Reach, Dar’epha turned to him and spoke her first words since Whiterun.

“Hang back and let me do the talkin,” she said. “The Reach ain’t kind to foreigners.”

Antario wore a blank expression and was looking around at the landscape as it slowly faded into view with the rising dawn.

“I cannot imagine this place being particularly kind to anyone,” he said.

Dar’epha made an agreeing grunt and stomped up towards Ainethach’s house. As it turned out, he was most obliging at being woken up so early, once he found out who he was talking to. Anything, he said, to help out the Dragonborn. Dar’epha could only presume he was yet another in the long list of people that Gylhain had helped solve a problem for.

“She came through a couple of days ago,” Ainethach explained, as he sat across from her at a table outside his house. Antario stood peering out at the Reach, but Dar’epha could tell his ears were tuned to the conversation.

“I gave her some supplies,” Ainethach continued. “I was happy to. She said she was heading up to Druadach Redoubt. Nasty place. I haven’t seen her since, but it’d take more than a couple of feral Forsworn to keep her down.”

Dar’epha forced herself to give a wide grin. “So how do I get up there? To the Redoubt?”

Ainethach gave directions that she could only assume were accurate through their sheer level of detail. He might have wasted words, but he had a thorough knowledge of the area, although some parts sounded second-hand. Steep paths to take, locations to avoid. There was much of both in the Reach. When he was done and Dar’epha had committed it all to memory, she thanked him and shook his hand.

“You’re not setting off now, are you?” he asked. “It’s barely light out there.”

Dar’epha waved a paw. “I’ll be fine. The Forsworn ain’t exactly subtle, after all.”

Ainethach gave Antario a strange look as he retreated back into the warmth of his house. The elf’s eyes peered out from under his hood.

“Are you familiar with this region?” he asked as she led them the way they’d been directed.

“Nah. I spent most of my time in the towns and cities.”

“Because you are a thief.” Antario’s tone was empty of any judgement, but Dar’epha still made a point of not reacting to the statement.

“What, they don’t got a Thieves’ Guild where you’re from?” she asked.

“Not as such,” he replied. “I understand they have had some problems regarding their leadership.”

“Yeah, we had that here too,” said Dar’epha, “til Gylhain sorted it all out.”

“The Dragonborn is a thief?” asked Antario. This time his voice carried a clear note of surprise.

“Not as such,” she smiled.

* * *

 

The path up to the Redoubt gave the pair no trouble. Dar’epha was light of foot, but Antario never stumbled on the rocky slopes either, though she more than once expected him to. Nor did they encounter any Forsworn, or even any wildlife. The Reach was silent for their travels.

The path weaved its way towards, away, then towards a river, which she assumed to be a tributary of the Karth. At the final convergence she could clearly make out the light of a campfire, on a ledge-like area on the other side of the river. A single figure was lit by the flames, sitting at ease on a log stirring a pot that hung over the fire. A smile came across Dar’epha’s face. Looking around for a way to cross the water without getting wet, she found her route at the top of a small waterfall, the wet protrusions of rock becoming a bridge as she leapt easily from one to another. As the final leap landed her on the other side of the river, she looked back and, seeing Antario managing the crossing well enough, cupped her paws around her mouth and looked up towards the light.

“Hello the camp!” she called, choosing to follow the adventurer’s method of announcing one’s presence. For such a large figure, the Dragonborn moved with incredible speed in response to the noise, picking up her bow from where it was propped beside her and nocking an arrow from where she had a small forest of them prepared.

But once she’d spun, her posture immediately relaxed. The corners of Gylhain’s mouth momentarily curled in the faint hint of a smile, before lowering again.

“So you got my note,” said the Dragonborn. “I hope you didn’t make too much mess breaking in.”

“Looked like you did plenty of that yourself,” said Dar’epha, closing the distance between them. There were deep lines on her friend’s brow, and she wondered how long Gylhain had gone without sleep, how hard this mission was hitting her, despite her almost unparalleled endurance. Dar’epha slung a thumb over her shoulder.

“This is Antario,” she said. “Insisted on draggin himself along. Needs your help, he says.”

“Him and everybody else,” muttered the Dragonborn. She gestured to the pot. “Sit down, help yourself.” Dar’epha did so as Gylhain faced the elf, now looking increasingly nervous at being face-to-face with a legend.

And indeed Gylhain looked the part: she was in full ebony armour, minus the helmet. A large Dwemer hand-axe was at her belt, and a pale heavy-looking shield leaned against the log. Dar’epha suspected it was made of dragonbone. She spooned a considerable portion of stew into a small wooden bowl and sat blowing on it, waiting for either of the others to speak.

“Dovahkiin, it is an honour—”

“Only because you don’t know me. What do you want? I’ve got a long day ahead and too much to do in it.”

Dar’epha had heard Gylhain use this tone before with people, but there was an extra edge to it now, a sense of weariness mixed with worn anger. Antario cleared his throat.

“I defected from a sworn enemy of yours: the Thalmor. I have reason to believe an assassin is on my trail, and I seek your protection. I will pay, of course.”

Gylhain developed a frown and looked Antario up and down. “Dark Brotherhood?” she asked.

Antario shook his head. “They prefer not to outsource. The killer is a Redguard—I should not have dignified him with the title of assassin. I set up numerous false trails and traps for him in the Imperial City, but it is surely only a matter of time before he tracks me to Skyrim.”

Gylhain grunted and gestured across the river to the north-west, where Dar’epha noticed the opening of a cave, almost hidden in the rocks, the path heading up to it lined with spikes: Druadach Redoubt. “I’ll help,” said the Dragonborn, “but I’m in the middle of something now. If you’d like to lend a hand . . .”

Antario raised his eyebrows. “You wish my help in fighting these . . . Forsworn, was it? Who attempted to kill you. Surely that occurs regularly for someone in your position.”

The Dragonborn’s face split into a growl. “They were in my house. In my—if Angi had been there . . . no. The Forsworn are a blight. I thought killing their leader would be enough, but it seems they’ve found a new one. No, this ends here, today.”

“Today?” asked Antario. He looked over at the cave entrance. “You plan a frontal assault? Surely such a plan is suicidal.”

Dar’epha laughed around a mouthful of stew. She swallowed heavily and said, “You ain’t seen her in action.”

“Is there no other aid you can call upon?” asked the elf.

Gylhain looked towards the north. “There’s Mor Khazgur. The orcs would help if I asked, but this isn’t their fight. No point spilling more blood than necessary.”

“You hear there’s a new orc Archmage at Winterhold?” asked Dar’epha, her thoughts jumping immediately to the news she’d heard in Windhelm.

“I heard,” said Gylhain. “Heard they had some trouble up there, too.”

“And you weren’t there?” grinned Dar’epha, chancing it. Gylhain just shook her head.

Antario frowned. “I suppose you would not have attained your current reputation without a certain . . . recklessness.”

The corners of Gylhain’s mouth twitched again. “What do you say?” she asked, staring hard at the elf. “Help me”—“Us,” interjected Dar’epha—“and I’ll see you won’t pay anything other than some minor expenses. I’ll get you hidden, comfortable, and secure. And if he does find you, no killer, no matter how well-trained, is getting past me.”

Antario looked at his feet for a few seconds. When he straightened up, he said, “What choice have I but to accept?” He held out the sword Dar’epha had taken from Breezehome. “Your friend assured me it was acceptable to take this, but I still feel it was a breach of hospitality.”

“That?” asked Gylhain. “I never used the thing more than twice. Keep it. You’ll need something to back up your spells anyway.”

“How did you know I was a mage?” asked Antario.

Gylhain frowned again. “You don’t survive long in this business if you don’t learn to pick a mage at a hundred paces.”

* * *

 

The light was a little more solid by the time they had all eaten. Gylhain handed her bow—glass, almost weightless in the hand—to Dar’epha.

“You’ve always been a better shot than me,” she said. “There’s a sentry at the entrance, can you see him?”

Dar’epha, narrowing her eyes, could just make out the shaggy head of a Forsworn peeping out at them. Gylhain pulled on her helmet and hefted her shield. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said.

“What?” exclaimed Antario. “There is no way you can make a shot like that. I can barely even see what you are aiming at.”

Dar’epha just smirked at him. Gylhain drew her axe.

“If you want to stay alive, Antario,” said the Dragonborn, “stay close to me.”


	6. The Battle of Druadach Redoubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8, of the same name, in _The Last Forsworn_ , provides a different perspective on the events in this chapter.

The steel arrow bit directly into the Forsworn sentry’s throat, sending out a plume of blood. Before they’d hit the ground, Gylhain was on the move, bounding across the ford in the river. Seeming to be barely weighed down by her ebony armour, she moved with incredible speed up the path to Druadach Redoubt, with Antario puffing behind. Dar’epha hung back to the rear, another arrow already nocked in her bow. Past the still-gurgling body of the sentry, the trio advanced into the cave to take on the Forsworn and their leader. How many enemies were inside, they knew not.

* * *

 

As they emerged from the entrance tunnel into the main chamber, Dar’epha took in the usual Forsworn ambience: goat heads on spikes, animal hides stretched into crude tents, a general stench of death. She buried her arrow in the back of a Forsworn chopping wood to announce their presence. Cries of alarm swept through the cave as the Forsworn reacted to the attack. Bashing her shield into the face of a charging Ravager, Gylhain gestured to her right with her axe.

“Two paths up. You take the right. Meet you up top.” And with that, she was away, charging up the nearest ramp with a roar, colliding with an archer, a forceful swing taking off their arm and another, their head. Dar’epha saw no more, for she moved to the right and up a narrow ramped path, keeping low, getting two quick arrows off into the chest of another archer before they could manage even one.

She managed to bury another arrow between the eyes of a Reachwoman still fumbling for her axes, and realised she was starting to enjoy herself. Just then two Ravagers came running down the next slope, swinging their dual swords with dizzying speed. It was a tactic designed to intimidate, but such tricks did not work on Dar’epha.

She dropped her bow and drew her new glass sword. The matching dagger she tossed almost casually straight into the heart of the foe on the right. The remaining Forsworn lost no impetus at seeing their comrade fall, and came straight at her. But faster than they could react, she did a standing leap over his head, angling slightly to the left, landing on the flat level the two had descended from. Before the Forsworn could realise what was happening, she’d launched herself off the ledge, knocked their legs from under them and drawn her sword across their throat.

A scream from across the cave was cut short, followed by a flash of lightning arcing up and out. Antario’s magic in action; it seemed the pair were having similar success.

Retrieving her dagger, she advanced up the final slope to the highest area in the cave. Glancing across, she could see Gylhain and Antario in a similar position on the opposite side. She felt a moment of gratification that she’d managed the same distance as the two of them in no less time. There were three Forsworn left in sight, all clustered around a pitted forge: an archer struggling to get an arrow into play; another Ravager with two axes; and another, in the centre, who didn’t appear to have any visible weapon. Dar’epha narrowed her eyes. The hole in the centre of his chest marked him as a—

“Briarheart!” she yelled, diving to the side as the spellcaster in question loosed a deadly shard of ice in her direction. Narrowly dodging being skewered, she kept moving in a circle to the right.

“Get her!” yelled the Briarheart to the axe-wielder, the air around his hands shimmering with heat as he prepared a fire spell. On her feet again, Dar’epha prepared to engage the swinging axes approaching her at great speed. The Briarheart flung their fireball at Gylhain, but she dragged Antario down and brought her shield up, easily absorbing the force of the blast.

Dar’epha swayed to her right to avoid a downwards swipe, then ducked and rolled to her left to dodge a strike intended to decapitate her. There was another flash of lightning somewhere ahead of her. Coming up, she buried her dagger in the Forsworn’s right shoulder, causing them to grunt and drop the axe in the respective hand. Before they could recover, she’d cut the sword into his chest.

As she let her foe fall, she was just in time to see Gylhain deliver a skull-shattering blow through the Briarheart’s ward, ignoring the magical defences, the figure’s antlered helmet, and their skull with equal ease. With a gauntleted hand, the Dragonborn doused the last remnants of fire dancing across her shield.

The Forsworn archer, still sizzling from Antario’s lightning burst, thrashed backwards in the dirt to get away from their attackers. Gylhain wiped their axe clean on the dead Briarheart’s furs and stomped towards the crippled figure. She dropped her shield and used the free hand to lift to Forsworn into the air by his throat.

“Where’s Borkul?” she demanded. The Forsworn spat blood. Dar’epha noticed more on Antario’s adopted sword; he’d needed to get close and personal after all. Gylhain shook the bloodied archer.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she said. She turned, took the short steps to the forge, and lowered the Forsworn towards the coals.

“It’s not Borkul!” he spluttered. He made a sound that could have almost been laughter. With a twist of her arm, Gylhain dropped him just outside the forge.

“Talk,” she said. Dar’epha wished for the absence of the ebony helmet, so that she could read her friend’s expression.

“Borkul’s lying in the dirt somewhere,” said the Forsworn. “Joslyn’s in charge now.”

Gylhain paused, then swore and returned her hand to the man’s throat. She squeezed until he stopped thrashing.

“Who is this Joslyn?” asked Antario, after a small silence.

“We were in Cidhna Mine together,” growled Gylhain. “We . . . did not get along. I left her behind when the escape happened.”

“And yet it appears she has made it out on her own,” said Antario.

Dar’epha rolled her eyes at his stating of the obvious. “How dangerous is she?” she asked instead.

“She’s feral, and damn quick.” The Dragonborn paused for a moment, seemingly looking at the corpses. “I’ve got too many damned consequences running around this province.”

Dar’epha set about cleaning her blades. “Then we’ll just go and take care of her,” she said.

Gylhain looked back towards the entrance. “I don’t know what kind of trap this is, but there’ll be something nasty waiting outside for us.”

Dar’epha snorted. “And I’ll bet it’s nothing we can’t handle.” She indicated Antario. “How was he with that sword?”

“Skilled enough. He’s had training.”

“I am perfectly capable of answering these questions myself,” said Antario.

“Come on,” said Dar’epha, darting back for her bow, “let’s go have a peek. What’s this Joslyn gonna have done? Raise the dragons from their ancient sleep? Oh wait, that already happened! And you dealt with it with no trouble. This’ll be like a stroll through the market.”

There was no response to her ramblings, but Dar’epha heard both of the others following her as she headed back towards the entrance. When she was close enough to see the sky, Dar’epha stopped and crouched, indicating with a paw that the others should do the same. The faint echo of voices travelled in to their ears.

“Wait here,” she whispered. “I’ll go have a peek.”

Gylhain nodded, keeping her axe drawn. Flattening herself out, Dar’epha dragged herself up the final stretch with her arms, keeping as silent as only she could. Reaching the final lip of the cave, she gently propped herself on her elbows to survey what was waiting for them. What she saw made her duck back instantly, breath held from fear they might have glimpsed her movement. When no yelling or angry movement could be heard, she exhaled and shuffled back to where Gylhain and Antario were waiting, impatience written on the latter’s face.

“Well,” he murmured, too loud, “what is it? What’s this trap?”

Dar’epha thought for a moment. “So my market-stroll comparison might not have been as appropriate as I thought.”

“How many?” asked Gylhain.

“A couple of dozen, maybe. At least one Hagraven, too. Could pick out your pal Joslyn though, standing in the middle wavin her sword like she’s tryin to cut down a mountain.”

“Is there some sort of plan this time other than charging in like a madwoman?” asked Antario.

Gylhain made a movement that could have been a shrug; it was hard to tell under the armour.

“It’s worked pretty well for me so far,” she said, standing. “You two aren’t used to this sort of fight, I won’t ask either of you to come with me.”

Before Dar’epha could make her disagreement known, Gylhain had strode to the mouth of the cave, towards the horde.

* * *

 

From the opening of Druadach Redoubt, Gylhain had a clear view of the trap that had been sprung. Or so Joslyn would like to believe. Dar’epha had been conservative in her estimate: at least thirty, perhaps thirty-five Forsworn were gathered before her. Including _two_ Hagravens, all headed by Joslyn, whose frantic movements became even more so upon Gylhain’s appearance.

“Do you see my army, Dragonborn?” raved the woman, spreading her arms wide. “This is your end! I will watch you bleed out alone and the Forsworn will once again rule the Reach.”

The Dragonborn grinned beneath her helmet. The look in her eyes would have made the toughest of the Forsworn flinch, had they been able to make it out. She spread her arms wide in an echo of Joslyn’s gesture.

“Oh, but I’m never alone,” she said.

* * *

 

The Shout, incomprehensible to Dar’epha, thundered across the Redoubt, echoing off the harsh mountains of the Reach. She made the distance to stand beside her friend in seconds. Antario was not far behind. The gathered Forsworn collectively flinched, expecting to be blown away or set on fire, but they suffered neither.

The sound faded from hearing, and still there was no visible effect. Joslyn laughed and signalled her archers and spellcasters.

“Leave nothing of her!” she yelled.

A volley of arrows and deadly magic would have gone flying straight at Gylhain, but at that moment an immense red dragon landed in the middle of the Forsworn forces, crushing several under their scaly hide and bowling half a dozen away with a sweep of their tail.

Gylhain looked at Dar’epha for a moment. “Keep an eye on the elf,” she said, then jumped from the path down to the base of the Redoubt.

“Glad you could make it,” she called to the dragon, already hewing through scattered and disorientated Forsworn with her axe.

“Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into a nice mess this time, Dovahkiin,” said the great beast.

Gylhain just grunted and returned to the fight.

“You intend to join this battle?” asked Antario to Dar’epha.

“Oh, there is no way I’m missing this,” she replied. She started moving down the path towards the fight, loosing an arrow into the melee with almost every other step. She hadn’t gone far before she felt Antario beside her, launching lightning in tandem with her arrows, being noticeably careful to aim well away from the dragon.

More unintelligible words were spoken, this time from the dragon’s throat, and a great gout of fire spewed forth, incinerating a batch of Forsworn. Joslyn’s shouts from across the battlefield attempted to rally her disheartened troops. Several were already trying to flee; Dar’epha made sure to focus her shafts on them, but could not be sure whether any made it away. Gylhain was making for the leader, using both axe and shield to bring blood wherever she strode.

A small group detached from the main horde and headed towards Dar’epha, more than even Antario’s lightning could extinguish. She reached for her quiver and found it empty. Antario, too, looked to be low on magicka.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said to him. Without armour, he wouldn’t last long against an enemy blade.

“Do not worry,” he said, short of breath. “I am well aware that such things are your domain.”

She grinned and hurled herself into the fight, catching the forerunner by surprise, slitting his throat open. The battle was now truly upon her. She moved like a wraith, dancing away from blades, rolling to avoid magic, never once feeling the touch of blade or spell. Her own blades tasted more than their fair share of Forsworn blood that morning. A well-placed boot into an archer’s chest sent him reeling backwards into a Briarheart, causing the latter’s spell to go in entirely the wrong direction. Instead of a twisted bolt of flame engulfing Dar’epha, it went sideways, impacting into another Forsworn’s face, sending them writhing and screaming to the ground. She dispatched the Briarheart with two quick stabs, then remembered to check how Antario was doing.

A hagraven was advancing on him, and he threw himself backwards as its claws reached for his throat. Dar’epha mumbled something about elves and went to intervene. She planted her dagger in its side to catch its attention. It turned its foul features towards her, the claws soon following.

She tried to lean out of the way, but either she wasn’t fast enough, or she misjudged the hagraven’s reach. Either way, the claws just caught her on the nose, sending out a spray of blood and a spasm of searing pain. She stumbled, and the hagraven cackled as only they can, preparing a fireball to end the fight. But that time at least, Dar’epha was faster. Her sword hacked at the creature. There was movement to her right, and a moment later Antario was there, his own blade drawing blood.

Withdrawing her weapons with unpleasant squelches, Dar’epha surveyed the field of battle. Most of the Forsworn lay dead or dying, with the dragon grasping a single enemy between their jaws, hurling them away til they impacted on rock with a sickening crunch.

Joslyn, it seemed, was still drawing breath, as she backed towards the river with two of her followers, looking for an escape route but not wanting to take their eyes off Gylhain as she advanced, drenched in their comrades’ blood.

Dar’epha clamped a paw to her nose to stem the blood flow.

“You are not going to help her?” asked Antario.

“Nah, that’s her business,” she replied. “You got spells, can you do anything ’bout this?” She held out her bloody paw for a moment.

“It is not my strongest school,” he said, approaching, “but perhaps . . .”

A golden light emanated from his left hand. He moved it close to Dar’epha’s nose and she felt the restorative powers flow through her. The pain ebbed and she turned away, crouching to tear a piece of clean(ish) fur from a corpse’s garment to clean away the excess blood. Afterwards, she ran her paw over the wound.

“There will be a scar,” said Antario. “Or three, I suppose.”

“Three?” exclaimed Dar’epha.

“They are parallel.”

“Like that’s supposed to make me feel better,” she said, throwing her arms up. After a moment she said, “Thanks.”

Antario looked momentarily embarrassed. “You helped me when you did not have to,” he said. “It seemed only right to extend my own hand in return.”

Dar’epha nodded, and turned her gaze again to Gylhain. Her friend had made quick work of Joslyn’s last followers and was coiled, waiting for the leader to strike. When it came, Joslyn moved faster even than the hagraven that had come at Dar’epha, who knew had it been her in Gylhain’s place, she would been bled more than just a little. As it was, the crude sword simply shattered into pieces upon the Dragonborn’s solid shield.

The impact rebounded Joslyn backward. Gylhain owned the moment, lunging forward and separating Joslyn’s head from her shoulders with a single swing. She kicked the Forsworn’s body into the river before it could fall.

Dar’epha noticed then that the dragon was peering at her from a very short distance. Antario had gone pale. She prepared for a sideways leap, but no fire was forthcoming.

“Well met,” they rumbled. “Your skill is evident even alongside the Dovahkiin. I am Odahviing, Winged-Snow-Hunter.”

Gylhain rejoined the mismatched trio, attempting to clean her axe. She made no effort at introductions, so Dar’epha was forced to stammer out her name.

Odahviing exhaled steam from their nostrils and turned perhaps expectantly towards Antario. The elven mage was standing with his mouth slightly open and Dar’epha suspected he was about to collapse. She leaned in and said, “His name’s Antario and he’s sure it’s a pleasure.”

A deep noise came from Odahviing’s throat that could have possibly been amusement.

“I owe you one, Odahviing,” said Gylhain, wiping down her shield. Dar’epha wondered if the dragon took offense at the shield being made from the bones of their dead brethren.

“You owe me nothing, Dovahkiin,” replied Odahviing. “It was a fine way to begin one’s morning.” They gazed skywards. “I cannot imagine you requiring my aid for much, but if you do, and you call, I will always come if I am able.”

With no further farewell, the dragon launched themself into the sky with a single beat of their wings. Dar’epha and Antario were knocked down by the blast of air, but Gylhain seemed not to even notice. Odahviing circled above them once, then was gone, soaring high over the horizon to the north.

There was no talking for a time, as Antario attempted to dust off his robes. Dar’epha moved to the river’s edge and peered at her reflection. The fast-moving water made it difficult, but she could make out what would be a permanent reminder of the battle: three parallel diagonal lines across the bridge of her nose, the paleness standing out against her dark fur.

When she turned back, Gylhain was already onto the next order of business.

“I have a place in mind for you, Antario,” she was saying. “Have you seen Windhelm?”

Antario raised his eyebrows, coughed, then spoke. “It does not have a reputation as the most tolerant of cities,” he said.

“And that’s exactly why nobody will look for you there,” Gylhain said. “There’s a quiet house I know, a grieving man who could use some company.” She turned away, her movements suddenly slow, worn out from recent sleepless nights, worn out from almost ceaseless adventuring since that fateful day when an altogether harsher dragon swooped down on Helgen. She pulled off her helmet and took large gulps of air.

“Maybe Angi and I could move out of the city,” she said. She peered around as if searching for a good place to found a home.

In a transparent attempt to delay that, Dar’epha said, “But right now, I think we could use a drink. The Four Shields is closest, ain’t it?”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Antario, too loudly. Dar’epha grinned at him as he continued. “I believe it will be . . . what is the term? My round.”

“Or two,” said Dar’epha. “Let’s not commit ourselves one way or the other.”

But she couldn’t read Gylhain’s expression as they followed her to break up her little camp, couldn’t gauge the toll this particular expedition had taken on her friend.


	7. Interlude: Stormblade

“But I already know what her answer’s going to be, Helvard, so there’s no point bothering her.”

“Damn it, woman! If you’d just let me talk to her . . . this is serious!”

“I’ve given you her answer. She doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

Gylhain kept stirring the stew, pretending like she couldn’t hear her wife arguing with Falkreath’s housecarl. There was a curse, then some stomping, and the door closed. Angi reappeared by her side.

“Thank you,” she said.

Angi spat into the fire. “Maybe this time they’ll get the message. You’re retired.”

“Aye, that I am,” said the Dragonborn, trying not to look at the door.

* * *

 

The months since the battle at Druadach Redoubt had been quiet ones. Gylhain’s desire to move away from the city had been accepted with a warm smile by her wife, and Angi’s old hut above Falkreath was the obvious choice. Some minor repairs had been necessary, but Gylhain had seen to them with efficiency, never once complaining about the bitter wind that howled all around them.

They survived. They hunted in the mountains together, hiked north to fish at Lake Ilinalta, and made irregular trips down to Falkreath for any minor luxuries. Life was hard, but satisfying.

Antario had been settled in with Torbjorn in Windhelm, promising to curtail his distaste for the Nords until he got to know at least his host a little better. Dar’epha had stayed in Riften, taking on more and trickier jobs for the Guild. When Gylhain had asked Brynjolf how their Khajiit friend was doing, the man had just smiled. Gylhain was sure he was grooming Dar’epha for the position the Dragonborn had turned down: that of Nightingale.

But behind the quietness of their life, Gylhain could not help hearing dark rumours. Vampire attacks were on the rise, the Dark Brotherhood was more active than ever—the reason, it transpired, for Helvard’s visit—and there were more Thalmor abroad in Skyrim than ever before. It was a constant struggle to ignore the brewing chaos.

* * *

 

She rolled awake one morning with an intense desire for something other than red meat. She dressed quickly in furs and found the fishing pole leaning in its corner. They’d taken only a handful of weapons when they left; the rest remained locked in Breezehome and Honeyside. But Gylhain had not yet been able to break old habits, so she buckled on her much-travelled ebony sword.

“Where are you going?” murmured Angi through a heavy layer of sleep.

“Fishing,” she replied. She leaned in and kissed her wife gently. “I’ll be back before lunch.”

Angi just smiled and rolled back into the bedcovers. Gylhain exited into the snow as quietly as she could.

* * *

 

The trip was a successful one. Gylhain found herself relaxing in the warm sun on the shores of Lake Ilinalta, her fishing pole and sword beside her. Her collection numbered eight fish, tied on pieces of string in the shallows to keep them fresh. She checked reflexively to see if her sword was in easy reach, should trouble strike.

It was good fortune that it was, for trouble saw fit to strike almost at that moment.

“Dragonborn!” the yell rang out. Hoarse, but laced with anger.

Gylhain rolled to her right, picking up her sword on the way, the end of the movement bringing her to her feet with blade at the ready. Her eyes scanned the surrounds, but there was nobody in sight. Only the quiet woods and the shimmering lake, now silent, the birdsong having ceased at the sound of the yell.

“Show yourself!” he called.

A Nord woman emerged from behind a tree some twenty paces away. She was built for fighting, tall, with a stern face and dishevelled blonde hair so pale it could have been mistaken for white. She was young, however, and carried a large broadsword on her back. More noticeably, she wore the armour of a Stormcloak officer, although her head was bare and the armour had seen better days. She made no further movements, staying well out of sword-reach and well-positioned to dive back into cover should the need arise. The features of her face nudged something vague in Gylhain’s memory.

“You’re a hard woman to find, Dragonborn,” said the woman after a pause. Her voice easily covered the distance between them. Now she peered closer, Gylhain suspected the woman had been sleeping rough for some time.

“And who might you be, wearing the armour of a lost cause?” she asked, her memories of the civil war coming back to her in a rush. The countless dead, the near-sightedness that had almost torn Skyrim apart.

“There are still those who hold true to Ulfric’s dream of a free Skyrim,” the Nord replied, gritting her teeth. But Gylhain thought she could detect a wavering in the words.

She shook her head. She felt pity for the woman, another who’d been taken in by Ulfric’s sweetened voice and slick speeches, tricked into fighting for a misguided fool. “You lost,” she said, “and Skyrim is stronger for it. Why are you still holding on to dead grudges?” Gylhain wished there were parts of her past that she could forget.

“Because it was you!” spat the woman, her cheeks turning red and her brow furrowing. Her mouth twisted as the words came forth. “You turned the tide for the Legion! You butchered countless true sons and daughters of Skyrim! You led the charge on Windhelm!”

“So this is revenge,” sighed Gylhain. Another woman from her past with an axe to grind. “I did what had to be done. I held Skyrim together. Don’t think I didn’t grieve for every corpse. This is as much my home as yours, has been ever since—”

“Since Helgen?” interrupted the woman.

“You . . . I remember now. You were there that day, lined up for the block with the rest of us.” The day which had started her off on a series of events leading to her becoming probably the most famous person in Skyrim since Tiber Septim himself.

“You saw what the Legion was doing,” growled the woman. “They would’ve executed you then and there, just ’cause you happened to be with us. I saw you fighting with Ralof through the Keep, I thought you would fight with us, help us reclaim Skyrim! And then there you were: stopping us getting to the Jagged Crown, bringing down our keeps, firing our camps . . . the Dragonborn, a soldier of the Legion. Do you know how many deserted when they heard you were against us? If only you’d made the other choice—the right choice . . .”

The woman’s voice was beginning to crack. “Let me guess,” said Gylhain, “there’s a principle at stake. No. There’s misplaced Nord pride at stake, nothing else. Skyrim is better for what I did.” She was growing impatient, having had these arguments dozens of times over. “If you want to try and kill me, just get to it. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good fight.”

There was a pause while the woman drew her massive steel broadsword. “Do you want to know the name of who’ll be sending you to Oblivion?”

Gylhain sighed again. “Fine. What is it?”

“Stormblade. Kara Stormblade.”

Their eyes met. “I heard tell of a Stormblade, during the war. One of Ulfric’s favourites. Assumed dead in the attack on Windhelm.”

A fire appeared in Kara’s eyes that reminded Gylhain of herself. There was a sudden lifting of weight and she found herself removed of the desire for blood. Only an empty tiredness remained. But there Kara was, charging at her with sword raised, coming in with a skull-cleaving downwards slash.

Gylhain skipped lightly to the right, easily evading the attack. As the momentum of the blade carried it into the dirt with a soft thump, she planted a boot in Kara’s side and toppled her over.

“You’re as bad as I used to be,” she said. “Faster than you should be with that hulking weapon, but you’re leaving your mind blank when it should be screaming. It’s not enough to rush in blind and hope at the end you’ll be standing and your enemy won’t. Maybe the intimidation worked on the rawest recruits during the war, but it won’t work on me.”

Barely hearing the words through the red mist that had clearly descended on her thoughts, Kara grunted and came again, this time bringing the sword around from over her shoulder. Gylhain met it with her own weapon, stopping the strike with a jolt that went all the way up both her arms. There was certainly weight behind the blows, she conceded.

Still, she gave a great shove and sent Kara sprawling backwards in the dirt, her sword wrenched from her hand and flying out of reach. She looked up, certain her end had come. Instead of delivering the killing blow, Gylhain backed away several steps.

“Pick up your weapon and go,” she said. “I have no quarrel with you.”

She saw clearly the young woman before her, and wondered exactly how young she was. And yet her life already cursed with death and despair. The Stormcloaks were no longer welcome in any city or town—how long had she been on the run, hiding in the wildest corners of Skyrim? Gylhain saw in that face the lack of sleep that had so often been reflected in her own.

Kara scrambled to her feet and reclaimed her weapon, clearly confused at her foe’s manner. The two stood facing each other in silence, the younger tense, the elder weary. When Gylhain spoke, her voice was slow, weighing each word carefully.

“There was a time, not too long ago, when I would have killed you without a second thought.” She paused and looked at the ground. “That time is past. I am truly sorry for your losses. I know only too well what that absence feels like. I’ve seen too many good women and men die and I won’t be the cause of any more . . .”

She lapsed into silence, lost in memory. She remembered the vampire’s claws opening Lydia’s throat, the daedric sword cleaving through Jenassa, the shock spell frying Erik’s mind. She remembered Belrand’s body sweeping away down the river, the giant’s club crushing Illia into the ground, the sacrifice she’d forced Stenvar to make in the name of Boethiah. She remembered them all and countless others, her memories a daily curse.

“Kara, I don’t want to fight you,” she said, meeting eyes again. “If you want to go after who killed Ulfric, his name is General Tullius, and he’s in Castle Dour surrounded by a loyal army. You’re not stupid. Give up this crusade. Reclaim your life.”

Silence reigned again by the lakeside. Kara stared at the ground, uncertainty writ on her face. She took a deep breath and, letting it out, let the point of her sword lower to the ground.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked in a quiet voice. “I was almost hoping you’d kill me.”

Gylhain nodded. “You can’t block out the dead,” she said. “But you can’t let them rule your life either. Ulfric may be gone, but you’re still here.”

Kara returned her sword to its place on her back and spoke with slow realisation. “I . . . never grieved properly. I was too focussed on revenge.”

“Which never got anyone anywhere,” said Gylhain, with a sad smile.

“I still have some friends in Windhelm, I think. Maybe they could give me a place to stay,” said Kara.

“If they’re any kind of friends, they’ll just be glad to know you’re alright. Might want to ditch the clothes before you hit civilisation though, lots of ex-Legion in the new city guards.”

“Yes, I will . . . I better get going.” Suddenly Kara seemed embarrassed and could not look at Gylhain. She was already moving away before the Dragonborn had her own realisation. Would she even make it to Windhelm, tired and drained as she was? With no secure shelter, and perhaps no food? Competent enough with a sword, but Gylhain knew that didn’t count for everything.

“Wait,” she called out. Kara froze, immediately tense again. “No, it’s . . .” Gylhain paused. “I’ll get you some clothes, some supplies for the journey.”

Kara frowned. “Why would you do that?”

Gylhain shrugged. “I’ve got some atoning to do. Might as well start with you. When was the last time you had a hot meal?”

Kara scratched at her chin. “Weeks, I reckon.”

“Then come on.” She turned and began to take in her morning’s catch. “Angi will be able to do something marvellous with these.”

* * *

 

The snow had started falling again by the time they reached the hut. Gylhain felt a glow in her heart as home came into sight, as she saw the warm light of the fire through the windows. A smile spread across her face and her pace quickened, almost running the last stretch. Kara’s long strides had no trouble keeping up.

“I brought company,” said Gylhain as she entered.

Angi raised her eyebrows at Kara’s attire, but said nothing.

“Then welcome to our home,” she said. “How was the catch?”

“Didn’t get as many as I would’ve liked,” Gylhain replied, passing the fish over from her pack. “Had to give out some life lessons.”

Kara gave a small, slightly uncomfortable smile, and didn’t seem to know where to rest her eyes. But Angi just gave a small snort.

“More likely you dozed off in the sun again,” she said. “Now come here and help me get these scales off. What’s your name?” she added to their guest.

“Kara,” said she. “Of Windhelm.”

“A bleak sort of place,” said Angi. “I was never fond of it.”

“Says the woman who built a hut on the side of a mountain,” smiled Gylhain. “Any place can be warm enough with the right company.”


	8. Murder in the Arcanaeum

Vash gro-Nul crumpled onto the bench with his head in his hands. Almost a year since he’d been appointed Archmage, a year of success and prosperity, a year of breaking new ground. He should’ve known that his good luck would run out eventually. But murder . . . in his College? It wore so heavily upon his soul. Even if none of the other mages blamed him, he would certainly blame himself.

The faint light of the morning sifted gently through the high windows of his quarters. He hadn’t slept since it happened. It had been late, late even for him. He’d gone down to the Arcanaeum to ask Urag if they had a copy of Herbane’s Bestiary; specifically, the entry on automatons. He’d had a brief encounter with a broken wreck of a Centurion while exploring the Sightless Pit, but a rather large amount of Falmer had arrived, and the course of the battle—that is, Vash’s protracted retreat from it—had taken him away from what could have been a revealing investigation.

However, upon entering the Arcanaeum, he’d discovered the scene of a heinous crime. Urag gro-Shub, the librarian of the College, lay slumped in his chair with his throat slit. Vash had been struck with horror, frozen to the spot. Who could have done such a terrible thing? There was a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision and he dived forward, a movement that undoubtedly saved his life. Coming to his feet, he turned and summoned a strong ward with his left hand, spraying ice in an arc before him with his right. Although the blast did not cause significant injury to the target, it did have the intended effect of breaking the unseen foe’s invisibility spell.

The air shimmered and revealed a dark elf woman, clad in close-fitting hooded armour of black and red. Seeing her cover broken, she took one look at the fury burning in Vash’s face and fled, moving with incredible speed, already halfway down the first flight of stairs before he could make his next move. With quick thinking and even quicker casting, he went after her. He took each flight of stairs in one downwards leap, barely slowing his impacts with carefully timed use of telekinesis. More than once he avoided broken limbs by a fraction of a second.

But when he broke through the main door into the courtyard of the College, she was nowhere to be seen. Sprinting to the gates, he fell to his knees in defeat; there was no sign of her on the suspended bridge down to the township, nor even prints in the snow.

* * *

 

These moments played over and over in Vash’s head, damning himself more each time. The chaos that had ensued afterwards, as all the mages rose from their beds to address the tragedy, had elicited very few useful pieces of information, as everyone tried to add their own ‘expert’ opinion. But Enthir, with his perhaps less-than-reputable connections, had recognised Vash’s description straight away. The Dark Brotherhood, he said. On the rise once more, carrying out their deadly business throughout Skyrim, or so went the rumours.

Several of the others had examined Urag’s body; all had concluded, after various disagreements, that his death had been instantaneous. He probably hadn’t felt a thing.

Drevis Neloren had led the scouring of the College grounds, instructing others to travel in pairs and use a variety of Illusion spells designed to reveal the unseen. The students in particular had risen to the challenge well, but no trace of the assassin had been found.

The scraping of feet against stone indicated a visitor in his quarters, so Vash rose from his seat to address them. He was heavily built like most Orsimer, with rough features and a thick brow. A short black beard protruded from his hood, but the hair on his head was cropped almost to non-existence. The visitor revealed themselves to be Tolfdir, Master-Wizard, his aged face furrowed with tiredness and concern.

“Apologies for the interruption, Archmage, but we’ve talked it over and decided to hold the funeral tomorrow. Faralda suggested we light the pyre on top of one of the towers . . .” He trailed off. Vash seemed to barely be listening.

“Archmage?” Tolfdir asked. “Are you alright?”

“Now,” Vash replied. “Let’s do it now. No reason to leave his body lying cold any longer than it has to. I’ll take the students out, get some wood.”

Tolfdir sighed. “Nobody’s slept much, but I’m sure they’ll help if you ask, Archmage.”

Vash nodded slowly and made towards his wardrobe, retrieving his thickest pair of boots and gloves, ever the better to cope against the harsh winds and bitter cold of Winterhold. He turned back to Tolfdir as he headed to the stairs.

“And I’ve told you, please don’t call me Archmage.”

Tolfdir’s expression was unmoving. “It’s a gesture of respect, Archmage. An earned one.”

Vash understood. He’d made significant progress in restoring the relationship between the College and the rest of Skyrim, and was always accessible to any of the mages or townsfolk who required aid. They respected him for it; he worked hard and genuinely cared about the welfare of those around him. He’d even made plans to help rebuild the town, working with Jarl Kraldar. Privately, Vash had plans for much more.

* * *

 

On the roof of the Hall of Attainment, Urag gro-Shub’s body lay on a burning pyre, lit by a conjured flame. Every member of the College was gathered around the flames in a circle, standing in silent remembrance of their departed colleague.

Gradually, as the fire died, the mourners departed, most to bed despite it being early morning. Only Vash remained, still staring into the dying coals. When he’d first arrived at the College he had been so glad to find Urag, not only as a fellow orc mage, but as someone who shared his interest in books. Urag had been gruff, as he always was, but he had seen a young orc who could go far.

Together they’d expanded the Arcanaeum’s collection considerably, Vash always willing to travel the breadth of Skyrim and delve into the deeps for the cause of expanding knowledge. The shelves now bulged with tomes of every description, salvaged from ancient ruins, bought from merchants far from home, and salvaged from the private libraries of twisted mages.

Vash decided that having a drink was the sort of thing he would be expected to do. On the walk across the bridge he had another fit of guilt. Maybe if he’d just gone down to the Arcanaeum a few minutes earlier, then he could have saved Urag. Maybe if he’d just reacted a bit faster, he could have caught the assassin. The need for revenge burned in his heart, a feeling he hadn’t felt since the kindly Savos Aren had died and Vash had torn through Labyrinthian for the Staff of Magnus, returning to the College to rip Ancano apart with fire and lightning.

Brushing the snow off his feet, he creaked open the door of the Frozen Hearth. He saw Tolfdir and Sergius, the College’s foremost enchanter, sharing a drink at one of the benches. He gave them both a nod in greeting and moved to the bar.

“Ale,” he said, slumping on a barstool. The bartender, Dagur, a well-meaning Nord, produced it without mentioning the early hour.

“Sorry to hear about Urag,” he said as he poured it out and slid the tankard across the bar.

“Thanks, Dagur,” Vash replied. He was in no mood to talk about it, but Dagur didn’t take the hint.

“Sergius said something about it being a Dark Brotherhood contract?” the bartender went on. “There seem to be more and more of them these days. Why, just yesterday I heard a butcher was killed in broad daylight at his stall in Whiterun.”

This information was added to the swirling mess in Vash’s mind. A wild idea occurred to him. He quickly downed the remaining ale and slid the appropriate amount of septims across the bar. Thanking Dagur absent-mindedly, he strode over to where Tolfdir and Sergius were sitting opposite each other. Sliding in next to Tolfdir, he laid his palms flat on the table.

“I’m leaving for a while,” he said. “Going to try and track down the Dark Brotherhood, maybe find whoever ordered the contract. Tolfdir, as Master-Wizard, you’re in charge until I get back.”

The two mages accepted the news with ease. Vash had a penchant for vanishing on adventures. Since accepting the post of Archmage he’d curtailed such expeditions, but this was more than just a desire to find that missing book, that lost artefact. This was personal.

Tolfdir cleared his throat quietly. “There’s another matter I wasn’t going to mention for a while, but if you’re leaving . . .”

Vash gave him an expectant look, and regretted how short he was being with his colleagues and friends.

“We need a new librarian. Nobody can fill Urag’s shoes, naturally, but we need someone in charge of the Arcanaeum.”

Vash thought, running through all the mages in his head. “Most of the senior mages have other responsibilities. I can’t give it to Faralda or Nirya: they’ll see it as favouritism either way. Enthir’s too unscrupulous, Colette’s too bumbling.” The last assessment elicited a chuckle from his companions. “I’m probably better off promoting one of the students—though we shouldn’t call them that anymore.”

Tolfdir nodded approvingly. “That was my conclusion also, Archmage,” he said.

But he’d wanted to see what Vash would come up with anyway. Or wanted to see if he could still reason while his thoughts were clouded with revenge. Vash ran through the reduced options.

“Brelyna’s too occupied with her experiments. J’zargo’s too occupied with . . . fire. Onmund is the only choice. He has been at a loose end about where to focus his studies.”

Tolfdir and Sergius agreed. “Will you tell him yourself?” asked the latter.

“I owe him that much,” said Vash. “I’ll go pack a few things, tell him, and be on my way.” Vash stood up, the other two copying his movement. He shook hands with both of them.

“Farewell,” said Tolfdir, “and know that Urag would be proud of you.”

“Even if he would never have said so,” added Sergius.

* * *

 

Onmund gladly accepted the post with only a moment’s hesitation. He immediately started gathering his things to shift over to the Arcanaeum. So, packing up a satchel of supplies, Vash gro-Nul left his College for the city of Whiterun.

The lack of horses and carriages forced him to go on foot, but he sped up into long strides, the snow crunching under his feet. Perhaps to the south, he thought, he might find a way to get his vengeance.


	9. Short Deaths

Vialas Maryon had made the distance to her next contract as quickly as possible. At Stonehills Mine she pilfered a cloak from a dozing miner and wrapped it around herself against the chill. She tried not to dwell on the look she’d seen in the orc mage’s eyes; there was a raw violence in him the same as all orcs she’d met. Still, the contract had been fulfilled. It’d been a shame that she hadn’t had time to stay a moment and feast on the mark’s still-pumping blood. Her vampiric appearance was beginning to become more apparent. Dunmer were already noticeable in Skyrim, she could do without further complications.

She should have killed both, she knew. But he’d seen her too soon, she’d lost her chance to have matching slit throats. She’d been seen! She wasn’t meant to be seen unless she wanted to be, or only within the Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood.

Now there was a bunch of wonderfully despicable people. Vialas’ brutal murder of Grelod ‘the Kind’ had attracted the group’s attention; cutting open another three in front of Astrid had secured her entry into the fold. She was even starting to like them.

Except Cicero. He was loud and rude, qualities that Vialas despised. She preferred the company of Veezara or Gabriella, soft-spoken and indeed perfectly happy to sit in silence for any length of time. The Night Mother had been an unwelcome development as well. Despite what aid she might be able to provide, despite whatever contract this so-called Amaund Motierre might offer, there was something unsettling about her, and it wasn’t just that she was a preserved corpse.

A talking preserved corpse, no less. Listener was not a position that Vialas had been particularly interested in, but here she was carrying around that mantle anyway. These contracts had simply been a way of getting her out the Sanctuary while Astrid figured out what in Oblivion she was going to do about the whole thing.

And now, the College contract dealt with, she almost at the next, another orc as chance would have it. A bard, going by the name of Lurbuk, residing at the Moorside Inn in Morthal. Definitely the easier she’d done in a while, by the sound of it. Keeping just off the road and out of sight, she approached the town from the east.

She headed down the narrow path, in amongst the twisted trees and low fog. All in her favour, though the sun was a little higher than she’d like. She made sure her hood was up and avoided eye contact with the town guards. Better to not make herself memorable.

She drew a few looks from the scarce patrons inside the inn, but she cared not for such things. Her mark was easy to spot, the only orc in town. He was bent over a bench facing away from her, scribbling on parchment, no doubt composing some abysmal ballad about a woman. Indeed, these ballads were apparently so abysmal that Astrid had held a lottery to determine just who got to put in the contract.

She sat at the bar and ordered some mead for appearance’s sake. She spun on her chair and watched her mark, pretending to drink. Thankfully—at least for her—it wasn’t long before Lurbuk dropped his quill with an exaggerated flourish and picked up his lute. There was an audible groan from a nearby Nord man, burly and dressed in iron armour.

“D’you have to?” he demanded. “Right now? This hangover’s burnin me somethin’ fierce.”

“I am afraid, Benor,” said Lurbuk, “that I must be in perfect practice for when the evening patrons arrive. It would not do to perform an unready piece.”

“All your pieces are fuckin unready,” growled Benor between his teeth. “Even when they’re ready they’re still unready.”

Vialas saw her opportunity. With one hand under her cloak, she began to craft a small fury spell.

“Ah, it is true that no work of art is ever truly complete,” said Lurbuk.

“I’ll complete your gods-damned skull if you pluck a string o’ that lute,” said Benor, swinging his legs out from the bench with a grunt. Vialas wondered if events would progress to her desired conclusion without her influence, but decided she couldn’t resist having a hand in what was to come.

She released her fury spell at Lurbuk. The orc suddenly straightened and returned his lute to the table.

“Ah,” said Benor, “so you’re finally seein sense.”

“Damn you, Benor, I’ve had enough of you talking to me like that.”

Lurbuk drew a small iron dagger from his belt and came at Benor, despite being half his size and drastically underequipped. Vialas realised smiling would not be good for her cover, but had to struggle with it regardless.

“The fuck are ya doin?” exclaimed Benor as Lurbuk tried to get the dagger through his armour. Benor stood, and the blade grazed his face. He swept up his battleaxe from where it lay on the table, and felled Lurbuk with a single blow. The blood spurted in a glorious arc, ending his life in the blink of an eye. Pure poetry, thought Vialas. She would have loved to appreciate it further, but there was a role to play.

“Holy Divines!” she exclaimed, leaping from her stool. The bartender was looking on with amazement, and perhaps slight satisfaction.

“You saw that,” said Benor, looking quickly from the bartender to Vialas. “He came at me.”

“Nobody move!” said Vialas, holding out her palms. “I’ll run for the guard.”

She sprinted for the exit. As soon as she had the door closed, she stopped, readjusted her hood, and walked calmly out of town.

* * *

 

The sun now high in the sky, Vialas crouched under the wooden bridge near Half-Moon Mill, silently watching and waiting.

Her contract: kill Hern, and his wife Hert if necessary. The catch, as Nazir had called it, was that the pair were vampires. The Redguard assassin had wondered if she experienced any reluctance about killing her own kind, but she was quick to correct him on that account. She’d only gotten along with one vampire in her short life and that was Babette, their fellow assassin.

And after this final kill, she was just a short dash away from home. She was beginning to think of it as such, despite its current state of upheaval. She’d learnt the hard way not to get attached to people; she didn’t want to make the same mistakes again. But these were good people, outcasts like herself, who shared her passion for death. Perhaps there was something of value in that, despite her reservations.

Her target was nowhere in sight, presumably still inside the house. His wife, however, was chopping wood, seemingly unaffected by the bright sunlight. Vialas might be able to get to the house without being detected by Hert, but there was no telling what was inside, or whether she’d be able to leave again just as quietly. And so the conclusion came: Hert had to go.

She drew her dagger with one hand and cast a muffle spell with the other. Illusion was the only school of magic she felt herself mildly competent in, although seeing Festus Krex work had opened her eyes to a new world of assassination possibilities.

At the same time as Hert’s axe fell, cleaving another log in two, Vialas’ dagger opened her throat. The assassin sighed at her own repetition. Efficient it might be, but fun? She looked around for something a little less subtle. Her eyes caught on the woodcutting axe, and her hands worked it free from the block with a grunt.

She hefted it in both hands, swung it a few times to get the weight, then strode to the door of the house and knocked three times with the butt of the axe. The door opened to reveal a large man who was no doubt Hern. She could see the vampirism in her eyes and hoped her own condition was not quite as obvious. She gave an evil smile and swung at him.

But Hern was quicker than she’d expected, and he pushed the door towards closed and the axe only cut through wood. By the time she pulled it free, the door swinging to and fro, he’d reappeared with his own axe: iron, crafted for combat rather than chores.

Vialas backed away rapidly. She’d never had a contract go so far south so quickly before. Hern’s other hand stretched out and the red flickers of the vampiric life-draining spell stretched towards her. When there was no effect, he paused, confused.

That tiny moment was all Vialas needed. The first strike caught him in the gut and he fell to one knee, a strangled cry on his lips. But he had enough strength to swing at her still, and although she attempted to parry with the wooden shaft of her axe, his blade bit into the fingers of her left hand. She rent through the side of his skull, clumsily swinging the axe one-handed.

Cursing under her breath, she left the weapon and the bodies where they fell, cradled her damaged fingers to her chest, and headed into the house to find something to use as a bandage.

* * *

 

The Black Door creaked open at her command. She found Astrid in the first room, poring over her map as usual. Her eyes flickered to Vialas’ wound, but made no comment.

“I’ve reached a decision,” said their leader. “Seek out this Amaund Motierre and see who he wants dead. Report back to me as soon as you’re done.” She paused, remembering where Vialas had been. “How did your contracts go?” She looked at the wound again, more pointedly this time.

“I got the job done,” said Vialas. She pulled back her hood with her right hand, revealing short black hair and elvish ears.

“And that’s all we ask,” continued Astrid. “Get your payment from Nazir, then head straight for the meeting at Volenruud.” She turned back to her map, deaf to any objections.

Not that there would have been any; if the Night Mother’s information could help restore the Dark Brotherhood, then Vialas would be right on it. Walking down the next flight of stairs and into the Sanctuary proper, she gave Arnbjorn a smile as she passed him, working on one of his blades at the grindstone. He was gruff, but she was winning him over.

In the dining room she found Nazir and Gabriella, talking across the table. She paused at the top of the stairs to listen, not making her entrance known.

“Word certainly travels fast, doesn’t it?” Gabriella was saying. Her arms were resting forward on the table and her red Dunmeri eyes twinkled with delight.

“It’s the part with the severed head I find most impressive. My compliments,” said Nazir. His large Redguard frame towered over the other members, and only Arnbjorn could match him for strength. But then, relying on strength was only one way to go about assassinating people.

Gabriella shrugged. “Once I had them all convinced I was who I said I was, the rest was only a formality. Although a rather wet, messy formality.”

Nazir chuckled, and turned to see Vialas descending the stairs towards them.

“Ah, sister!” he exclaimed. “Three contracts in one trip, how did you manage?”

Vialas hid her damaged hand beneath the table as she slid in next to Gabriella, smiling delicately. “No trouble at all. Four more souls sent spiralling into Oblivion.”

“You’re doing quite well around here,” said Nazir. “Your success rate is to be commended.”

“Indeed,” agreed Gabriella. “Your work on the miner contract in Dawnstar was most delicious.”

Nazir grinned, and Vialas knew what was coming. “A miner contract,” he said, “but not a _minor_ one, hmm?”

The two Dunmer just looked at each other and rolled their eyes. It was then that Gabriella noticed Vialas’ wound.

“One of your marks give you some trouble?” she asked, a hint of concern playing across her face. It vanished almost immediately, however.

“It’s nothing,” said Vialas. She looked around for a way to change the subject. “Place is a bit quiet today.”

Nazir grunted. “Veezara’s on a long job, something about revenge for a massacre. Festus is late; job’s only on the other side of Falkreath. Old man’s getting slow. I have no idea where Cicero has got to and don’t want to.”

Gabriella made a murmur that could have been agreement. Cicero was a touchy subject around the Sanctuary, and had the unnerving ability of popping up whenever you were talking about him. There was a silence while they waited to see if he would.

“Here’s your gold, anyway,” said Nazir, and slid a sizeable coin pouch across the table to Vialas. She hefted the weight and could not supress a smile.

“Best be getting after this . . . Motierre,” she said. Nazir nodded.

“Good luck, sister,” said Gabriella with a smile.

Vialas lowered her head in farewell. Then she was on her way, to a meeting that could decide, one way or another, the future of the Dark Brotherhood.


	10. Vengeance Reborn

At the same time as Vash gro-Nul was building a pyre for his departed friend, and as Vialas Maryon was sitting in the Moorside Inn, Gylhain was on the way home to her wife.

She’d risen early that morning, made the trip down to Falkreath for the supplies they couldn’t procure themselves. A letter, too, had come through from Kara in Windhelm. She’d found lodgings with none other than Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, which meant her room was just a shout away from Antario’s. Gylhain pondered the likelihood of the two getting along, and could only conclude that stranger things had happened.

Plenty to her specifically, of course. And none felt stranger than the Dragonborn, of all people, settling down in a snowbound hut away from everything. Over a year since they’d cut themselves off from most of the world. She stretched her mind back, trying to catch the date. What did it matter? Angi and Gylhain had never been happier.

She’d reached the snowline before she saw the smoke. More smoke than should have been coming from their chimney. She squinted at the cloud of it billowing into the white sky and broke into a run, wishing she’d brought her sword, wishing she hadn’t gotten complacent.

She Shouted herself across the last distance to the hut, almost colliding with a tree trunk in her haste. She pulled her hunting knife from her belt, slid the pack of her shoulder and, seeing the door hung open, dropped into a roll through the opening, coming up with blade ready to take on any enemy.

But there was none. Instead, an old man in red and black robes lay on his front in a pool of blood. Two arrows, Gylhain’s ebony sword, and a cooking knife protruded from various parts of his body. The bed, rear wall, and much of the roof was on fire. Angi stood in the midst of it, bleeding and burned, another knife in her hand.

“Another one of your consequences?” she asked. She collapsed.

* * *

 

When Angi awoke, she could see daylight through the ceiling. With her mind’s eye she calculated how far she would have to travel to find replacement wood, and how much she would need. Then she noticed the scars of ice all about her and remembered the fire and the blood.

She tried to move and felt the stretching pain down her side and in her arms. Her vision went fuzzy before she decided to close her eyes. She felt, rather than heard, the presence of Gylhain nearby. Her mouth felt heavy and dry, and it took her a few tries before she could get her question out.

“Are you going after them?”

She wished she could read her wife’s expression. Instead, she could only hear the response.

“Don’t worry about that now. I wouldn’t leave you alone while you’re like this.”

Angi tried to scrunch up her eyes and fall into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

When she opened them again, the gaps in the ceiling and the scars of ice were gone. The fire was contained in the hearth and she flinched away from it. She saw Gylhain crouched in front of it, stirring some broth. The woman came over and lowered a bowl gently towards Angi. She rejected the offer of it being fed to her, took it in her own two hands, and sipped gently. Gylhain’s face was anxious.

“Could have used a little less salt,” Angi said. Gylhain smiled, but Angi could tell it was forced.

“We need to move you as soon as you’re well enough,” said the Dragonborn.

“I’m well enough now,” said Angi. To prove it, she rolled out of bed, grunting her way through the pain, and came upright, albeit with a significant stagger. Gylhain stretched her arm out for support, but Angi waved it away. “I don’t want to leave,” she said. “This is our home.”

“Someone’s after me,” said Gylhain, “and they know about this place. We can’t stay here.”

“Can’t you go after them?” asked Angi. She looked around and saw that the body of the assassin had been removed. She’d wondered how such an old man could be an assassin, until the flames had begun.

“I intend to.”

“And where are you going to leave me this time?”

“I . . .” Gylhain frowned and left her mouth open for a moment too long.

“Look,” said Angi, everything coming crystal clear into her mind. “If someone’s after you, trying to draw you out, then I should make myself scarce.”

“But you’re still recovering,” said Gylhain. “I couldn’t leave you now.”

“But you will. Because you won’t be able to let this attack just stand. Remember the Forsworn? You’ll hunt the Dark Brotherhood and you’ll end them, because that’s what you do. I’m not coming along for the ride, but I’m also not holding you back.”

“Where are you going to go?” asked Gylhain. Angi was gladdened to hear a lack of argument.

“I’ll go wild,” she said. “Keep moving, stay off the paths.”

Gylhain’s face immediately became worried, and Angi loved her for it, despite the sudden cloying feeling she suffered.

“But how will I find you?”

Angi was glad she didn’t ask how she’d survive. They’d gotten past that sort of snobbery pretty immediately after meeting each other. Angi could take care of herself, as was even more evident after the dead assassin.

“Nobody will.” Angi allowed herself a smile. “When you’re done, I’ll find you.”

* * *

 

Gylhain dallied with every moment while she got her things together. Her chest under the bed had remained untouched by the fire, and from it she retrieved her ebony armour, piece by piece. With each strap she did up she felt herself further away from the life she thought she had wanted. Her old reliable dwarven axe was always heavy in the hand, but now it seemed even more so. Further back under the bed was her dragonbone shield, crafted from half a dozen of those ancient foes.

Her coin pouch was full, and her pack had the limited food she’d need for the journey to Whiterun. But still she lingered, and looked around the hut, and watched Angi’s own slow preparations. The still-recovering woman was clad in furs, and was moving dextrously despite her wounds. Despite the extra weight, she had been convinced to take along Gylhain’s ebony sword, which was slung across her back. Her pack bulged and her quiver was full. She passed her hunting bow from one hand to another.

“Stay safe,” said Gylhain, wishing she could up with something more poignant or meaningful.

“That’s the whole point,” smiled Angi. “Get some help, won’t you? Don’t go charging into any dens of assassins on your lonesome.”

Gylhain nodded, and immediately thought of Dar’epha. Strangely, her second thought was of Kara. She wondered what it would be like to have the big Nord along on an adventure, and how poorly she would get along with the Dragonborn’s Khajiit friend.

“I’ll be quick,” said Gylhain.

“I’m sure you will be,” said Angi. “No assassin’s ever given you trouble before.”

Gylhain’s face darkened.

“I guess I’m going to get pretty sick of red meat,” said Angi, attempting to lighten the mood. She turned and doused the fire. Gylhain opened the door to let in the sunlight reflected off the snow.

“You’d best be heading off then,” said Gylhain.

Angi shook her head. “You first,” she said. “You’re the one with a hunt on.”

“Fine,” said Gylhain, pretending to be angry. “I love you,” she said, “and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I love you too,” said Angi, her smile tinged with sadness. She didn’t comment on the rest of Gylhain’s promise. The Dragonborn embraced her wife gingerly, kissed her, then put on her helmet and began to stride down the mountain, on her way to destroy the Dark Brotherhood.

Alone for a moment in the hut, Angi took several breaths to test her lung capacity. Shorter than she’d have liked, but she could manage. She could always manage. Feeling a surprising weightlessness at being indefinitely alone for the first time since her marriage, she stacked up wood and tinder in case any traveller should come upon the hut. Then she padded into the snow, looked up at the sky, and started walking. Fate could choose the direction.


	11. The Mind of a Madman

Evening crept slowly over the plains of Whiterun. Jonah spared a moment to peer at the black outline of Dragonsreach that dominated the skyline. Night, his time, was approaching. He’d spent most of the day sleeping under a tree to the south-west, still filled with satisfaction from the massacre he’d enacted as he came over the border. His superiors back in Summerset would not be pleased with his digressions, he knew, but that was the price they had to pay for someone of his talents.

Too long he’d spent in the prison of the Imperial City, all thanks to the conniving plots of the traitorous Antario. His prized equipment had been taken away from him—all his current gear had been scavenged on his way north. Jonah was a large Redguard man; his muscles bulged beneath mismatched iron armour, dwarven boots, and steel gauntlets. He carried a bloodstained mace of orcish make and wore no helmet, leaving his battered features open for all to see. His hair, brown on its way to grey, came down to his shoulders, complemented by a messy short beard. But his eyes, sunk deep in his face, were his most striking feature. A vicious scar ran vertically over the left, an incident that had turned it milky white. The right was intensely bloodshot, and pulsed with a mad fury that had stared down foes across nations.

Stretching his limbs, he strode towards a nearby farm. He did not need any fancy equipment to engage in another little murder; his power pulsed within his blood. Jonah increased his pace, hurdled the fence that bordered the farm, and threw himself through at the wooden door. It came clean off its hinges and he was inside without breaking a sweat. A small Nord man in simple clothes leaped up from his seat by the fire.

“What in the . . .” was all he managed to get out before Jonah’s mace crushed his skull.

Joy surged through him and he felt alive again. In that instant, the moment of another’s death, he felt pure ecstasy. But as the body crumpled to the ground, it faded, leaving him hollow and emotionless once more. Another death must be sought.

A scream came from behind him. A wood-elf woman had emerged from the bedroom at the noise. Before Jonah could react, she’d sprinted out the doorway. Shouting curses, he ran after her. He usually didn’t mind witnesses, but it wouldn’t do to be arrested again, just as he’d regained Antario’s trail.

He was distracted, however, by a figure leaping the same fence he’d hurdled only moments before. The wood-elf was well on her way to raising the guard, but more important matters had Jonah’s attention. The figure, a slim Argonian, wore the armour of the Dark Brotherhood. It was only a matter of time, thought Jonah. All the people he’d killed, one of them was bound to have family who wanted revenge. Finally, a change from pitiful farmers and incompetent bandits. Finally, a challenge. The puny assassin’s moment of death would be all the sweeter for it.

The lizard already had his weapons drawn, a pair of identical steel swords. He leapt at Jonah, his blades approaching with deadly speed. But Jonah could move faster than his size would have one believe. He darted to the right, the tips of the assassin’s blades skewering only air. The two circled each other warily.

“Who was it?” asked Jonah. “That alchemist in Bruma?” He cackled but was careful not to throw his head back. “The bard with the flute? The bandit chief with the big hammer?”

“The merchants at the border,” said the Argonian. “I think you’d remember a massacre like that.”

“There have been so many,” said Jonah, “they all start to blur. I’m sure you know what I mean, lizard.”

But the assassin displayed no reaction to the insult. Jonah added the Dark Brotherhood to his mental list; those who had wronged him, dared to attack him, sent others to kill him, or simply those who had escaped his wrath. All would face their ends at his hands. Even his superiors featured, towards the end. For now, he could use them.

He grew tired of the circling and hurled himself forward. He delivered a crunching blow to the lizard’s side, and managed to deflect one of the two return blows. The second, however, cut into his left wrist. He growled and stepped back, seeing no doubt in his foe’s eyes. This was a professional, a true killer with no compunctions, who always came prepared. Jonah felt something that, in another person, would have been called respect.

The assassin was backing away, blades slightly lowered, something patient on his face. Jonah was frowning at this when his vision started blurring in time with his heartbeat. Each thump send a spasm across his field of view, shaking the world into a new angle. Poison. But his limbs still had their strength, and his blood was strong enough to withstand this pitiful concoction.

The Argonian came in for the kill. Jonah easily deflected the first strike, even through the now swimming chaos of his sight. But the second cut deep into his left arm, just below his shoulder. Jonah roared, the primal sound echoing across the plains. He swung his mace hard, and the lizard dropped their free sword to grasp the handle of the mace, bringing the blow to a halt. The lizard twisted the sword in Jonah’s arm.

He roared again. In the distance he could hear the yells of the town guards approaching. The blood he’d given his life for dripped to the dirt. The assassin, with both hands now, struggled to hold back the mace. Jonah raised a boot and kicked away his foe. They did not go sprawling, but did a light flip and came back on their feet, bladeless—until they pulled a dagger from somewhere.

They came on again, hurriedly. Jonah rushed the assassin, slamming his mace into them and pinning them beneath him. Dagger thrusts came into his left side. He let go his mace and managed to drop his left forearm across that scaled throat. He then used his right hand to withdraw the sword from his left shoulder. He almost blacked out from the pain, and dribbled blood on the struggling assassin as he reversed his grip on the sword and drove it through the assassin’s left eye socket. The Argonian’s struggles ceased.

He rolled off the body, his own blood now resting on top of another’s. He pulled the sword from the corpse as the shouts grew closer. He couldn’t move his left arm at all. Somewhere in the haze he could see the flicker of torches. Guards were approaching, lots of them, no doubt lured by that wood-elf—she too would be on his list.

He felt himself tumbling into unconsciousness and told that desire to go to Oblivion. He rose, bloody blade in hand, half-blind and essentially one-armed.

The first guard attempted to deliver the usual line, a line Jonah had heard in countless variations, countless times before.

“You have committed crimes against Skyrim and . . .”

Jonah lunged, the failed assassin’s sword opening the guard’s throat. The others rushed forward as a group.

“Take him alive!” one of them shouted. “The Commander wants him alive!”

He swung wildly in every direction, lurching whenever he could muster it. He felt the impact of the blade hit several targets before it was wrenched away from him. He fought with his free fist, tried to swing his useless arm, tried to bite at their faces. Then, a yellow circle appeared in front of him. It grew closer and closer until it filled his field of vision. There was a sharp pain to his head, then darkness swamped Jonah.


	12. Interview with the Psychopath

It was late when Vash gro-Nul finally approached Whiterun. He’d been held up on his way twice, by ice wraiths and then a large sabrecat. The wraiths had been no trouble at all, as he’d cloaked himself in flames and hurled a few firebolts at them. The sabrecat, on the other hand, he’d had no wish to kill, and had instead pacified it with a spell long enough for him to make a hasty escape.

Passing the stables, he exchanged greetings with a small group of Khajiit merchants, heading west. There was still much innate racism amongst the Nord populace, but thanks to the reforms the Dragonborn had forced through with her influence, Skyrim was, on paper at least, a more tolerant place. Vash considered himself lucky in Winterhold; the College took students of any race, as long as they had the aptitude.

He glanced approvingly at the walls as he crossed the drawbridge. On his previous visit, almost a year prior, much of the exterior walls were still being repaired, having lain in ruin from Stormcloak and dragon attacks. Now they had been rebuilt, better than ever. Trying to put aside thoughts of what his next move should be, Vash decided to go straight to the Bannered Mare in search of a warm meal and a comfy bed.

Approaching the gate, he saw a figure engaged in conversation with one of the guards there. A figure well-built like himself, burdened with a pack and boots dusty from the road. But there the similarities ended, for this figure was female, Breton, and dressed in ebony armour. Her helmet was tucked under her arm and her expression was hard to read in the torchlight. Vash drew closer, unable to avoid eavesdropping on the conversation.

“. . . right in the middle of the marketplace,” the guard was saying. “Nobody even saw who did it.”

“And there have been other killings,” said the woman, without a questioning inflection.

The guard counted them off on their fingers. “The woman who ran the orphanage in Riften, one of the Shatter-Shield daughters in Windhelm, a miner up in Dawnstar . . . there’s some I’m forgetting—oh! Heard the librarian up at the College was killed too, just last night.”

Vash felt the spike of grief enter him again. Word travelled too damn fast in Skyrim. The woman took a half step, working her right arm around in its socket, seeming to fix a kink in its joint. Vash observed in her the posture of a woman perfectly in sync with her own body, and yet full of unreleased tension.

“But if you plan to eliminate the Dark Brotherhood . . .” said the guard—and here Vash’s ears pricked up—“then there’s something that might be of interest to you. A madman killed a Brotherhood assassin just this evening, over by Pelagia Farm. It seems he’d broken in and killed one of the occupants when the assassin attacked. They fought, and the madman won, but at the cost of his left arm, which we had to amputate.”

“You have him in custody then,” said the woman.

“Yes,” replied the guard, anger coming into their tone. “He killed one and injured half a dozen during the arrest, but we got him.”

“I want to speak with him.”

Vash could no longer keep silent. This was a link to the revenge he sought, a revenge this woman appeared to have her own entry to. “Excuse me,” he said, edging further into the light, “might I join you? I also seek the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood.”

“And who might you be?” asked the guard, immediately suspicious of the hooded orc.

The woman looked Vash up and down, her eyes widening just a touch. “Those are Archmage’s robes,” she said. “It’s an honour.”

“Vash gro-Nul,” said he, inclining his head. “Likewise, I’m sure . . .”

The guard chuckled. “Well ain’t this a fortunate meeting! The Dragonborn and the Archmage, both going to destroy the Dark Brotherhood! I’d be shaking in my boots if I was them.”

The Dragonborn! Vash’s eyebrows rose. He’d heard she’d retired to the quiet life, somewhere in the south, but here she was in Whiterun on a new quest. The hero of the legends wore a frown, however.

“My name’s Gylhain,” she said. “And of course the Archmage is welcome to accompany me.”

“The Commander’s probably still awake if you’ve got any other questions,” said the guard, thumbing over their shoulder. They stepped back to drag the gate open wide enough for the two to slip through into the sleeping town of Whiterun.

* * *

 

The bright moons of Tamriel lit Vash and Gylhain’s path through the town. Heading up the nearest flight of stairs, they ascended to the Wind District. The Dragonborn broke the silence as they passed through the arched hole in the stone wall.

“The guard mentioned Urag was killed,” she said. “You have my condolences.”

“Did you know him?” asked Vash.

“A long time ago,” said Gylhain. “He helped me when I was looking for the Elder Scroll. I could’ve spent years searching the Sea of Ghosts if it wasn’t for him.”

“He mentioned you once or twice,” said Vash, “but never any details.”

“Didn’t seem the sort for giving out information,” said Gylhain.

True enough, though Vash. It had taken a long time and many extraordinary acts before he’d gained Urag’s trust and confidence. Even then, the older orc had always kept a gruff barrier between them. Their relationship had been one of mage and librarian first, and friends second.

“Too many lost friends,” sighed the Dragonborn. The pair resumed their climb in sombre silence, striding up the last flight of stairs and entering through the large doors into Dragonsreach. The hall was empty but for two guards, who both raised fists to chests at the sight of Gylhain. Leading Vash over to the left and down a flight of stairs, she opened the door to the dungeon.

* * *

 

“Ah, Dragonborn!” exclaimed Commander Caius, rising from the bench where he’d been writing when the two entered. “So good to have you back among us. And who’s your friend?”

“Commander, allow me to present Vash gro-Nul, Archmage of the College of Winterhold.”

The mage and the guard captain shook hands. Vash could see the man was tired, but was doing his best not do show it.

“What can I do for you?” Caius asked.

“We’d like to see the madman you arrested earlier this evening,” said Gylhain. “We believe he may know something about the Dark Brotherhood that could lead us to them.”

“You seek the Dark Brotherhood?” asked the Commander, his eyes widening. “Best of luck to you, and any aid you need, you have it. There’s already been too much death because of them.”

“Agreed,” said Vash in a low voice. He coughed and looked away from the others.

The Commander turned and led them down the low ceilinged dungeon, talking along the way. “He’s down the end here. We believe it was the assassin who gave him the cut to his arm. He was delirious from the pain when we found him.”

“How bad was it?” asked Vash. “Did you get a healer in?”

Caius frowned as they approached the correct cell. “Yeah, we woke up the damned court wizard,” he said. “And he agreed with my assessment: the arm had to come off.”

At that moment, a hulking figure lurched up in the cell, a huge hand reaching out to grab the bars of his cell door. Vash and Caius flinched back, but Gylhain was unmoved. She looked the Redguard figure up and down with a piercing gaze.

The madman’s one functioning eye was wide and wild, his long hair flung about his face, and his left arm ended a short way past his shoulder. The bandage around it, however, was clean.

“That’s the other strange thing,” said Caius, regaining his composure. “His blood doesn’t seem to stain, it just sorta . . . rolls off wherever it lands. And the wizard said his healing spells were only doing a fraction of the work they should.”

Vash peered at the man. His prison-issue clothes could not be the source of such resistance to magic. He appeared to have no other trinkets on him, either. Vash frowned, and began to run through his more esoteric magical knowledge.

“Do you know where I can find the Dark Brotherhood?” asked Gylhain.

The killer’s grip tightened on the bar, his mouth curled into a snarl, revealing teeth grinding against each other in rage.

“The Dark Brotherhood . . .” spoke the man, his voice disjointed and raw, possibly from lack of use. “They did this to me . . . they’re on my list . . . gotta find the Black Door . . . and that elf bitch too . . .” he trailed off into a laugh which quickly became a dirty cough. He spat blood on Gylhain’s chest, but she paid it no mind.

The man was clearly insane, Vash reasoned. Even before losing his arm, the brutality and random nature of his murders were obvious signs of an unstable mind, and although Vash had nothing to compare the killer’s current state to, it seemed that the loss of the limb had sent the huge Redguard over the edge, into a world where he was focussed only on revenge: the ‘list’ he mentioned.

Gylhain’s arm reached through the bars, her gauntleted hand wrapping around the killer’s neck. A dangerous spark had appeared in her eyes. Vash snuck a look at Caius, who was making no move to intervene. How do you tell the Dragonborn to back off?

“I know who you are, Jonah,” she said. “Now tell me about this Black Door.”

But the killer only planted a foot on the bars and pushed hard, wrenching himself away from Gylhain’s grip. He sprawled on the stones and yelled in pain, but rose with fury on his face again.

“You . . .” he breathed, “you’re one of the traitor’s pawns. That means you’re on my list too. I have seen your face, and I will see it again before I kill you.”

The man’s words sent a chill through Vash’s bones, but Gylhain was again unmoved. “We’re not going to get anything out of this one,” she said, speaking low. No sign of her previous sudden act of violence remained in her posture.

“No . . .” said the killer, his focus lost again. “No, I won’t be locked up again . . . he’s still out there . . .” He threw his full weight against the door, forcing Gylhain back. His voice grew louder, more frenzied. “Let me out,” he yelled, “ _LET ME OUT!”_

Vash had a spell ready in each hand, and Caius was yelling for more guards, but Gylhain was moving calmly away. Vash and Caius shared a worried glance, then followed. Vash took a last look at the killer, Jonah, in his cell; his huge frame now slumped against the door, his face leaning against the bars, his eyes closed.

Gylhain paused at the exit, turning to the Commander. “You might want to increase the guard on that cell,” she said, phrasing it like a suggestion although the tone suggested anything but that. “Reinforce the door. There’ll be death one way or another if he gets out.”

“By your word, Dragonborn,” said Caius. “I’m sure the Jarl will want to see you in the morning.”

Gylhain merely sighed and nodded, leaving the dungeon. Vash shook the weary Commander’s hand, then followed her back into the hall of Dragonsreach.

* * *

 

In The Bannered Mare, Vash sipped his wine and struggled to hold onto the idea that he was sharing a table with the Dragonborn. She was leaning back in her chair, scanning the interior of the inn. The only other patron at such a late hour was a Nord woman in full plate armour, hunched over a bench near the fire. Gylhain had addressed her as Uthgerd, and the greeting had drawn a ragged smile from the woman’s face, although she’d now returned to staring pensively into the flames.

Vash wanted to ask one particular question, but Gylhain got one out first.

“What do you think about his blood?”

Vash frowned, and resorted to his default position: “I don’t know. Could it be connected to his magic resistance? He didn’t look like he had anything on him that could have that effect.”

“Unless it’s in him,” said Gylhain.

Vash frowned as the new possibilities cascaded through his mind. He considered himself at the forefront of new magical developments, but this was a completely new perspective.

“I don’t know if that’s even possible,” he said. “How would you go about doing such a thing?”

“You’re the mage,” she said. “And keep an open mind regarding what’s possible. I flew to Sovngarde and killed a dragon god, after all.”

Vash was amazed she could be so flippant about her adventures, but restrained himself. He asked a different question.

“Why are you after the Dark Brotherhood?”

Gylhain’s eyes dropped to her wine, and Vash immediately regretted asking. He was about to retract when she spoke.

“They almost killed my wife.”

“Your . . . I didn’t know you were married.”

“But it should not have taken that to set me after them,” continued Gylhain, as if Vash had not spoken. “They’re a blight on Skyrim and I should’ve exterminated them years ago.”

“You were retired,” said Vash, testing the waters. He was unsure, didn’t know enough to compose a proper reassurance.

“A mistake, clearly,” said Gylhain, “as this damn province can’t seem to take care of itself.” She looked up, multiple emotions obviously warring in her face, and changed the subject. “I heard you’re trying to rebuild Winterhold.”

“Yes,” said Vash, disappointed but always willing to talk about his projects. “So much was lost during the Collapse, and not just houses and people. Rebuilding the trust is hard, but we’ve made progress. Jarl Kraldar is much more receptive than his predecessor. I guess we have you to thank for that change.”

Gylhain grunted. “And what is it that you want, Vash? What are you looking for?”

“Knowledge,” he answered, without a second thought. “Knowledge to expand our understanding of magic, knowledge that could help improve the life of every being in Tamriel. There’s so much we don’t know, about what magic can really do. The possibilities are endless.”

Gylhain gave a light chuckle. “And a prosperous Winterhold means a prosperous College,” she said.

“And vice versa,” added Vash.

“Well,” she said, “here’s to that.” They clinked their tankards together. Gylhain emptied hers and turned to the woman tending the bar, an attractive Redguard.

“Saadia,” she said, “there wouldn’t happen to be a courier around, would there?”

The woman’s eyes were tired, but she responded with a smile. Most people around Whiterun seemed to like the Dragonborn a great deal, Vash thought.

“There’s one sleeping upstairs, honey,” said Saadia. “Want me to wake him up?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

Saadia moved towards the upstairs room.

“You need to send a message?” asked Vash, trying to restrain his curiosity.

“Messages,” said Gylhain, pulling parchment from her pack. “Even with two assassins down and that madman locked up, we’re going to need some help.”


	13. Liars and Thieves

As the sun was rising over Skyrim, four figures of three races sat hunched over a table in The Bee and Barb, shaking dice in cups. Dar’epha slammed hers down first, sneaked her peek, and immediately adopted a contrite expression. The other players were the security for Ri’saad’s trade caravan. To her right was the other Khajiit, Khayla, who gained an expression upon looking at her dice made Dar’epha reconsider her own strategy.

The other two were recently hired, an attempt to replace Ma’randru-jo, who had been murdered by the Dark Brotherhood. They were an Argonian, Kureeth, who rarely spoke, and a Bosmer, Falin, who took it upon herself to speak enough for both of them. An odd couple, married for nobody knew how long. Dar’epha gathered that Ri’saad had found them at Windhelm’s docks and had been impressed with their complementary skill-sets. The caravan owner himself, along with his fellow merchant Atahbah, had long since retired to bed.

“We should really be getting some rest,” said Falin for the nineteenth time. “We have to head north at noon.”

“Ah, Windhelm,” said Dar’epha wistfully. “My least favourite city.”

Khayla chuckled. “Then this one recommends a trip to Markarth,” she said. “Three threes.”

“Three fours,” countered Dar’epha. She looked expectantly at Kureeth, down to his second-last die, but his face never gave anything away. Bereft of horns or hair, his features were solid and his snout short.

“Six fives,” he said in his low voice. Dar’epha’s brow went up. There was a pause while she looked the Argonian dead in the eye in an attempt to analyse him. She could glean nothing from his expression. Falin was grinning.

“Seven fives,” said the Bosmer.

“Oh, come on,” said Dar’epha. “Call it.”

The cups were lifted and the faces counted: one through to eight. They could have gone even higher. Dar’epha made a grumbling noise and lost her first die for the round. Khayla started laughing.

“And the tide begins to turn,” said Falin. “For her all experience, Dar’epha finds herself slipping towards the ocean of failure, mired in the swamps of lost septims, abandoned in the desert of defeat.”

Dar’epha rolled her eyes. “I thought you said you ain’t played this before,” she said.

“Did we?” asked Falin, wide-eyed. “I suppose we must have . . . lied. It is in the name of the game, after all.”

“Let’s just keep goin,” said Dar’epha, shaking her cup again. She lost a die, then another. Then Kureeth lost one, and was down to his final die. Khayla started laughing again.

“I think we’ve been up for too long,” said Dar’epha. “I’m startin to lose hold on reality.”

“In other words,” said Falin, “we can finally put an end to this with your defeat.”

“I ain’t ever lost at Liar’s Dice,” said Dar’epha, “and I ain’t plannin to start now.”

It was at this point that Sapphire entered the tavern. She came straight to their table, leaned close to Dar’epha, and handed her two folded papers, the first still sealed with her name on it, the second significantly heavier. She tore open the first, recognising the handwriting immediately: Gylhain. She hadn’t heard from her friend in many months, although it seemed much longer.

_Eph,_

_I’m going after the Dark Brotherhood and could use your help. Meet me at Breezehome if you can, as soon as possible. I’ve sent a letter to Delvin and Vex too, if you could bring their reply with you that would be most helpful._

_Gylhain._

“That’s to take along,” said Sapphire, indicating the second packet. “Everything we’ve got on the Dark Brotherhood. We hope it helps.”

Dar’epha frowned. “I thought we had some kinda agreement with them.”

“We do,” said Sapphire. “You missed a big argument about it. Eventually we came down on Gylhain’s side. She’s done more for us than the Brotherhood could ever manage.”

Dar’epha felt a rush of love for her fellow thieves, and folded both letters in the many pockets of her Guild armour. She wondered what could have happened to bring Gylhain out of her retirement and onto another bloody quest. In recent months the Dark Brotherhood seemed to have grown more powerful, with many murders and other suspicious deaths being reported across Skyrim. She imagine Gylhain would be calling in quite a few favours—although if anyone had a glut of them, it was her.

“So you’ll be running off then,” said Falin with a smile. “How convenient.”

“This one concurs,” said Khayla. “Things were just becoming interesting.”

“Oh, this ain’t over,” said Dar’epha. “I just gotta mop up the Dark Brotherhood and I’ll be right back to get the rest of your gold.” She stood up and started moving towards the door with Sapphire.

“But what if they kill you?” asked Falin, only half-joking.

“Well,” said Dar’epha, “I will have the Dragonborn along for the ride.” Leaving Falin’s mouth hanging slightly open, and even the shadow of an expression ghosting across Kureeth’s face, Dar’epha exited into Riften.

* * *

 

“Who was against helping Gyl?” asked Dar’epha, as she and Sapphire walked towards the secret entrance to the Guild’s cistern. Their Guild armour drew no glances as it might once have done. Across all of Skyrim, they were going from strength to strength, but Riften was their base of operations. Little happened in the city that they’re weren’t aware of.

“Some of the newer recruits,” said Sapphire. “Them that haven’t worked out the importance of rule number one yet.”

Which was, of course, no killing. Even Dar’epha had never broken that one—not while on a job, at least.

“They don’t even know what she did for us,” said Dar’epha. “The bosses okay with losin me for a while? You never know long a little time with Gyl is gonna last.”

Sapphire smirked. “We’ll stumble on somehow. You’ll miss the next caravan job, though.”

Dar’epha sighed dramatically as they trod through Riften’s small graveyard. Dirge and Maul had talked of little else for weeks now, looking forward to some muscle-work. “I’ll stumble on somehow,” she said. They looked around for witnesses, then slipped down the secret entrance. Waiting in the alcove as the fake floor closed above them, Dar’epha slipped out her usual tease.

“Maybe when I get back you’ll finally tell me where you got your name.”

“It’s not the where that’s the story, it’s the how.”

Even in the dimness, Dar’epha could see her friend’s smirk flicker.

“I’m . . . honoured you told me how it starts,” she said. It had been a two months prior. The tale of the pig farm, and how the bandits came. A moment of genuine emotion among the snark.

“How it ends is a lot more upbeat, I promise,” said Sapphire. She slipped down the ladder to the cistern. Dar’epha followed and strode quickly to her bed, retrieving the glass bow Gyl had let her keep after Druadach Redoubt. She scrounged around for some arrows, stealing some from Niruin’s stash, and was ready to go.

“I’d tell you to stay out of trouble . . .” started Sapphire.

“. . . but that’s our whole job description,” finished Dar’epha. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if there was something else she should do. She murmured a soft farewell, and was back up the ladder in a flash.

Back in the daylight, she headed for the carriage. She felt with her paw the three parallel scars across the bridge of her nose, a memento of her last adventure with Gyl.  The memory of the hagraven’s talons reaching out towards her came again, but she dismissed it. The pain was worth it. Besides, she kind of liked her scars anyway.


	14. Bound Until Death

As Dar’epha departed for Whiterun at great speed, Vialas was making her way to the wedding of Asgeir Snow-Shod and Vittoria Vici, the Emperor’s cousin.

Vialas had bought some fancy clothes at Radiant Raiment, so as to better blend in with the crowd at the reception. Dark Brotherhood armour tended to stand out, she’d noticed. The shop owner, however, had been so insufferably uppity and condescending, Vialas had considered murdering her where she stood. At length, she reasoned that a dead clothing merchant would most likely blow her cover. Besides, Astrid disliked unnecessary mess. And a mess it certainly would have been, Vialas thought, if the imaginings in her head were anything to go by.

And so instead she was calmly pacing across the courtyard of Castle Dour, towards the Temple of the Divines. The fancy clothes were almost unbearable, the sleeves were too loose, the skirts got in the way, and the low neckline drew glances from many men and women that she passed. The skirts had one benefit, however: an easy place to keep her knife. But if Babette’s information was correct, then she wouldn’t need it anyway.

Veezara had expressed interest in accompanying her on this mission, but he had still not returned from his contract by the time she had to leave and so, she went alone. She could have done with the companionship, although she would never admit it, perhaps even to herself. With Festus never having returned from the contract to kill the Dragonborn’s wife, they had assumed the worst: that he had failed against considerable odds, presumably killed by the Dragonborn herself. And Cicero was still making everyone in the Sanctuary uneasy with his rants and gibberings. They could ill afford any failure. As the Listener, Vialas did not intend to let them down.

Passing under the stone arch, she entered the small courtyard in front of the Temple, where the wedding reception was being held. Benches had been set up, with much extravagant food and drink. A bard, no doubt hired from the local college full of the damn creatures, sang twee songs on her lute. The bride and groom sat on two chairs directly opposite the door to the Temple, where they had just been married. Well-dressed guests milled around, consuming tripe and talking nonsense. Vialas would be glad to put her mark on this detestable occasion.

Vittoria Vici was speaking to the crowd. “Please, enjoy the festivities,” she said. “My day is your day! Eat, drink, make merry. We’re all friends here.” The crowd did not appear entirely convinced, but carried on making respectfully dull chit-chat nonetheless. Vialas strode over to one of the tables for the sake of appearances. If this went as planned, nobody would have any reason to suspect her, or indeed think there had been a murder at all. An old gargoyle, a dilapidated castle. A tragic accident.

She glanced up at the gargoyle in question. Old stone, dark grey like its surrounds, a hideous face etched upon it. And it fortuitously hung right above the balcony where the bride and groom would give their speeches. Astrid had promised a bonus if Vialas killed them during their speech, and she intended to collect.

She poured herself a goblet of wine and drained it quickly. A robed priest caught her eye from across the courtyard and started to make his way towards her. Cursing the Divines under her breath, she poured some more wine, her previous compunctions about drinking on the job forgotten.

“Greetings, and blessings of the eight Divines be upon you,” said the priest, sneaking a glance at her cleavage. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in Solitude before. Are you here especially for the wedding?”

Vialas did her best to eliminate her Morrowind accent, adopting the tone instead of a Cyrodiil native. “Why, yes,” she said. “My husband and I came straight from the Imperial City. He’s a member of the Elder Council, don’t you know. Trying to curry favour with the Emperor by attending his cousin’s wedding, already being here when he arrives, you know how internal politics are: such a drag.” She took a delicate sip of wine, as befitting a lady of her station. She was quite pleased with her little act; the others would appreciate this story upon her return to the Sanctuary.

The priest flubbed a few words as he struggled to absorb all the rapidly-delivered information. “You . . . the Emperor’s coming to Skyrim?” He said it just loud enough that several people nearby had to pretend not to become suddenly interested in their conversation. The Emperor was indeed coming—was in fact already well on his way—but the journey was highly confidential, known only to his innermost court and guards. And to the Dark Brotherhood.

“Oh, of course,” continued Vialas, relishing the extra audience. “He was so sorry he couldn’t be here, but he’ll arrive soon enough. That reminds me: he sent a little gift along with us. I’ll have to present it myself, my husband’s caught a nasty case of Bone Break Fever from this province of yours, simply doesn’t have the stamina to get out of bed. A convenient reversal,” she said, leaning in close to the priest, “as he usually doesn’t have the stamina _in_ bed. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

And with that, she drifted away, leaving behind a confused and somewhat overwhelmed priest.

* * *

 

She found the Temple of the Divines empty, and drained the rest of her wine. No time to waste now, she thought. She ran lightly up the stairs to the right, clutching her skirts in her fists, following directions that Gabriella had been kind enough to provide. If only she could see her in this get-up! Finding the door she sought, she creaked it open, anticipating patrolling guards, but there were none. On the upper stone walkway, she was able to see the reception down below and the married couple moving towards their own stairs to the balcony.

Keeping low, she moved quickly along the battlements to the loose gargoyle. Wishing she hadn’t drunk the wine quite so fast, she positioned herself behind the stone figure, peering down to be ready for her opportune moment. A moment that would live in infamy if she got it perfect.

The bride and groom appeared on the balcony below, the former throwing her arms wide to begin her speech, gaining the crowd’s full attention. She never got a single word out. Heaving her weight into the stone, Vialas dislodged the gargoyle. It toppled down, landing with a thud, crushing the bride and sending the groom reeling back. Unfortunately for Vialas, with the stone dislodged, she was now clearly visible to the horrified wedding party.

“Murder!” shouted someone. “The bride’s been murdered!”

Vialas swore, turning to sprint for an exit as the guards started to climb various stairs towards her, drawing bows for a killing shot. But as she turned, she found herself face-to-face with Arnbjorn, dressed in only a loincloth.

“Nice outfit,” he said with a grin. “Plenty of places to conceal dangerous things.”

“I can handle this myself!” she exclaimed, her red eyes glinting.

Arnbjorn shrugged. “Astrid’s orders. Besides, looks like you could use a little distraction. Now go!”

His body began to tremble and spasm. Vialas, realising instantly what he was doing, ran. At the corner she turned back for a moment. The guards, along with quite a few irate wedding guests, were converging on Arnbjorn, now crouching, his muscles bulging and twisting. A maniacal laugh descended into a howl as his face started to lengthen. His body swelled in size, now covered with thick brown fur. His powerful arms lashed out and the guards realised what they were dealing with: a werewolf.

Vialas would have loved to stay and watch him cause chaos, but she had to leave. Running again, she rounded more corners and crossed the walkway that spanned over the border between the market and housing districts of Solitude. The tower at the end of the walkway had a spiral stairs, and she took it down three steps at a time. She exploded through the door at the bottom, into the open air, facing the bay under the Solitude arch.

Smoothing down her dress and fixing her short black hair, she moved off at a stately walk towards the stables. Just a noblewoman out for a morning stroll, she thought, unable to keep the grin off her face. Yet another successful contract for the Dark Brotherhood. Their work would be known.


	15. Coalescence

Gylhain, finally back in regular clothes, was rummaging through one of her chests of drawers upstairs when she heard the knock on Breezehome’s front door. She yelled down to Vash, who had been browsing her bookshelf when she’d left him.

“If that’s Dar’epha, just let her in. I’ll be down in a moment.” She turned her attention back to the complicated choices of picking a new weapon. So many artefacts of so many adventures. She eventually decided on Chillrend, the sword that Dar’epha had borrowed for their little trip into Druadach Redoubt. She also swapped out her dragonbone shield for a light glass one. Sheathing the sword, she hoped it had indeed been her Khajiit friend at the door and not some hapless Nord looking for a favour, now that news was bound to be spreading that she was out of retirement. Returned by necessity, not desire, she told herself.

Unable to completely shake off her thoughts, she nonetheless put on a pleasant expression and descended the stairs to find Vash and Dar’epha making introductions.

“Eph!” she said as she came down. “So good of you to come.”

“Of course,” said Dar’epha, like it was nothing, like she hadn’t crossed half of Skyrim without a second thought. “You didn’t mention you had the Archmage hidin in here too.”

Vash gave an abashed smile. There was a book clutched in his hands, his fingers tapping along the spine.

“I thought you’d find a few things to interest you in there,” said Gylhain.

Vash raised the book in both hands. “You’ve got Roland Nordssen’s journal, _The Ruins of Kemel-Ze._ I’ve been looking all over for a copy of this.”

Gylhain waved her hand. “Keep it.” Vash started to politely protest, but she cut him off. “You and the College will get more use out of it than me.”

Vash thanked her and carefully tucked the book into his pack. Gylhain leapt on that thread of thought, suddenly unwilling to tackle the reason they were all there.

“There’s not much on that shelf really,” she said, “but you’re welcome to whatever interests you. My real library was in Markarth, but they refuse to allow me back in. I imagine it’s still there, nobody else had a key, and those doors were quite sturdy.”

The look on Dar’epha’s face revealed this was news to her. “You have a house in Markarth? As well as here and Riften and Solitude?”

Gylhain nodded. “I bought it early on, shortly after becoming Thane. Before all that stuff with the Forsworn happened. Not to mention the cannibals. Although I imagine by now any record of me being a Thane of the Reach will have been destroyed.”

She could see Vash was burning with questions. Dar’epha shot her a look and she could tell that her friend could see right through her stalling, and was concerned as to its source. Gylhain silently thanked her for the indulgence.

“Just how many holds are you Thane in?” asked Vash. “The tales would have us believe it was all of them.”

Gylhain smiled. “Four, now that the Reach is out. Whiterun, Haafingar, Eastmarch, and Winterhold."

“You never thought about collectin ’em all?” asked Dar’epha with a smirk.

Gylhain shrugged. “I’m not as popular everywhere as I am here. How are things with the Guild?”

The thief grinned. “Business is boomin,” she replied. “We got contacts in every town. Jobs are rollin in. So’s the gold.”

Vash was frowning at the ceiling.

“Something bothering you, Vash?” asked Gylhain.

“Have you . . . collected a lot of powerful artefacts?” he asked. “There’s a strong magical presence up there. Lots of strong enchantments.”

“A few, I guess,” said Gylhain. “I got rid of most of the unsavoury ones. Daedric gifts and the like.”

“Have you . . . done many things for the Daedra?” asked Vash.

“All of them except Namira,” said Gylhain. “Impossibly dangerous, all of them. I thought I could use them, and I got my rewards, but the price is always too high. You’re not going to start quoting the Vigilants, are you?”

“No . . .” said Vash. “The Daedra have such knowledge, powers that we cannot even dream of. If I had assurances I would survive unharmed . . . I think I would make my own deal. I cannot judge you for what you’ve done.”

Flashes of memory came to Gylhain—her darkest days of adventuring, where she’d done anything for anyone. Days full of murder and deception. The faces of the dead still came to her at night. She reluctantly changed the subject to the matter at hand.

“Did you get a reply from Delvin and Vex?” she asked Dar’epha.

“Yeah,” she said, retrieving a thick paper from one of her many pockets. She handed it over. “Did you have a plan other than this? I mean, have you two found any clues or anything?”

Vash answered that one. “We questioned, or tried to question, an insane man who managed to kill a Brotherhood assassin who was after him, but we couldn’t get any useful information out of him. He was delirious; he’d lost an arm and a lot of blood.” Vash started to roll a small ball of conjured light across his knuckles. “I was surprised he was still alive, really.”

Gylhain read through the notes sent to her, absorbing Delvin’s loose handwriting with ease. She looked up after a minute of silence.

“Vash, did you actually get a look at the assassin who killed Urag?” she asked.

Vash nodded slowly. “Yes. A Dunmer woman. Thin, but quick.”

Gylhain looked at Dar’epha. “Thank the Guild for me,” she said. “This means a lot.” She went on. “Delvin says they don’t know much about the Brotherhood, despite their arrangements. He’s met their leader only twice, a Nord woman called Astrid. They’ve lost two recently, which means by Delvin’s count there can’t be more than a handful of them left.”

Dar’epha and Vash both looked to be phrasing questions, but Gylhain ignored them and continued.

“Recently, though, he had a visitor. A thin Dunmer woman seeking a sale on an amulet he identified as one only given to members of the Emperor’s Elder Council. They gave a letter of credit, as per their usual arrangements.”

“Which are now void,” added Dar’epha.

“Any locations?” asked Vash.

“None,” answered Gylhain. She frowned for a moment, sorting through the endless dungeons and caves she’d delved into. “I came across one, years ago. I can’t believe I didn’t remember sooner. It had a black door, like Jonah mentioned.”

“Jonah?” interrupted Dar’epha.

“The man who killed the assassin,” said Gylhain. “He’s up in Dragonsreach dungeon now. This door demanded a password from me. I attempted to guess, but nothing worked. I blasted it down with a Shout—there was nothing inside. It looked like it’d been abandoned for a long time.”

“Then they’ve been operating from somewhere else,” said Vash. “I’ve been meaning to ask . . . how did you know the killer’s name?”

Gylhain grunted. She looked at Dar’epha. “You remember Antario,” she said.

“Of course.”

“He gave me a description: Jonah’s the killer who’s tailing him. Pretty unmistakable.”

“Who’s Antario?” frowned Vash.

“I wouldn’t normally tell you, but . . . he’s a Thalmor defector.” Gylhain paused, wondering if she should feel bad for revealing that secret. She did not, but had already decided Vash could be trusted. “I hid him, but perhaps not well enough.”

“This Jonah’s taken his damn time,” said Dar’epha. “How long’s it even been since Antario got here?”

“Antario conspired to get Jonah arrested in the Imperial City,” said Gylhain. “That’s why he’s only just got here. But he’s going to hunt down his quarry, and anyone who gets in his way.”

“Can’t you just kill him?” asked Dar’epha.

“Not while he’s in custody here,” came the answer. “But if he tries anything, I’ll take him down.”

“Does this Antario know his pursuer has arrived?” asked Vash.

“Yes, I sent him a letter in the same batch as yours,” said Gylhain, looking at Dar’epha. “And I’ve called in a favour”—here Dar’epha smiled—“so that he can hide himself even deeper.”

There was a pause. Then Dar’epha spoke, with far greater trepidation that usual.

“How’s Angi?”

“She fine,” said Gylhain, abruptly. “It was her who took down the other assassin I mentioned. They were trying to kill her, to get to me. She’s gone where nobody can find her while I eliminate the threat.” She turned back to Vash. “Can you get anything more out of Jonah?”

“I doubt it,” the mage replied. “His mind was broken well before he got here, I think.”

“Figures,” said Gylhain. “Then we’ll just—”

But she never got to express her idea, for at that moment there was a knock at the door. She passed between old friend and new, and opened it to reveal Commander Caius. His words were rushed.

“There’s been another murder, up in Solitude. I thought you’d want to hear straight away. The Emperor’s cousin, at her own wedding. The Dark Brotherhood were seen.”

“Do we know what they looked like?” asked Gylhain, as Dar’epha and Vash came up behind her.

“Reports are sketchy,” said Caius. “But it seems it was a Dunmer woman who actually committed the murder.” Gylhain turned to look at Vash, whose face had just darkened. The Commander continued, “There are some more unbelievable reports that a werewolf held off the guards so she could escape.”

There was heavy doubt in his tone, and with good reason. Werewolves were so rarely seen in Skyrim as to almost be considered myths. The Dragonborn, however, knew better.

“Thank you for coming so soon, Commander,” she said. “I—we will do all we can to stop the Dark Brotherhood before any more of these atrocities occur.”

“I know you will, Dragonborn.” Caius hesitated. “There’s one more thing: the Emperor is coming. Here, to Skyrim. He’ll be here soon, in the next few days, it seems, although nobody knows exactly when.”

Gylhain nodded, turning the new information over in her head. She shook the Commander’s hand in farewell, then closed the door and turned back to her allies.

“The Emperor, comin to Skyrim?” exclaimed Dar’epha, whistling appreciatively. She stopped suddenly. “Wait a mo’. If he’s gonna be here that soon, then he was already well on his way ’fore his cousin was murdered.”

“Indeed,” said Vash. “But he’ll undertake investigations. I imagine the Penitus Oculatus are already looking into it, making sure there’ll be no threats left by the time he gets here.”

“We’ve got one woman showing up too often,” said Gylhain. “At Winterhold, now in Solitude.”

“And trying to sell the Elder Council amulet,” said Vash. “They don’t exactly hand those out to people on the streets of the Imperial City.”

“I like a nice bit of coincidence,” said Dar’epha, “but this is too much, even for me.”

“Exactly,” said Gylhain. “We need to get to Solitude and investigate.” There were no objections from the others. She headed for the door, but held back at the last moment.

“You two go get us a carriage,” she said. “I need to get my armour, and then have a word with the Harbinger.”


	16. The Great Escape

In his cell, Jonah sat in silence. He was propped up against the wall, watching the door be reinforced with iron bars and blocks of stone. Two guards were permanently stationed outside his cell now—ever since those two had come to visit, the Breton and the orc. He would end them, but he had a greater priority for the present.

Antario had escaped him in the past; the future would be different. Maybe he’d cut off the Altmer’s arm, that would be appropriate, he thought. Maybe he’d burn down his home. Thinking of fire brought fragments of memories forth: walls burning, floor burning, flames ever closer. Crashing through, trying to escape, never quite— _no!_ He slammed his fist against the stone wall of his prison. He jerked his head back, creating a familiar spasm of pain. It dulled the memories, quieted his thoughts, but it was not enough. He’d need to kill again soon.

Hearing the noise, one of the guards turned. “Keep it down in there!” they yelled.

Jonah chuckled and sized up his two most obvious barriers to freedom. Standard-issue armour, easy enough to cut through. Pathetic wooden shields, steel swords—if only he could get his hands on one of those. He observed the killing implements with appreciation and longing.

He stood, and cracked his neck and free arm. The guards watched, probably glad their faces were covered to hide their unease. But Jonah could read it in their every movement. He looked around the cell for any useful utensils, and at first, dismissed it all. But then he reconsidered the bed. He pushed at it; not bolted to the floor, as it should be. In order to prevent people like him from using it.

Jonah moved to the door and began to kick. Even with the reinforcement, it was clear the metal was going to give. The guards began to yell: at him, and for aid. One of them mentioned a wizard and Jonah found himself grinning. He had lost count of his kicks when the lock broke and the door swung violently outwards.

The first guard came at him. He grabbed their shield and pulled. It didn’t come off their arm, but sent them rebounding off the bars and onto the floor. The second guard, angry enough now, came at Jonah. He retreated into the cell and moved to the foot of his bed. This guard had their sword drawn and made the mistake of entering the cell.

As they approached, Jonah gripped the bed. He doubted his ability to lift it fully with only one arm, so instead he swung it along the stones with all his force. It caught on a protruding stone and flipped along its long edge. It was wrenched from Jonah’s hand but the momentum carried through the air, smashing into the guard and crushing them against the wall.

He heard shouts, and the guard outside the cell was groggily attempting to rise. He took the crushed guard’s sword, darted outside and plunged it through the other’s chest. He was starting to feel alive again. Down the other end of the dungeon he saw a group enter: half a dozen guards, with a man in blue robes in the centre. Jonah grinned again and dropped his sword.

The mage stepped forward from the crowd and began to cast. Jonah had covered half the distance towards him when the spell launched. The impact of the fireball knocked him from his feet, but the flames rolled off his skin, fizzing out in a matter of heartbeats. His bandages, however, smouldered and he tore them off to expose the still-weeping wound.

He stood, unaffected by the spell. The mage’s eyes widened.

“Not possible . . .” he stammered. “No-one can resist—”

But Jonah had covered the rest of the distance. His massive hand closed around the mage’s throat. He lifted him into the air.

“Let me pass,” he announced. “Or I’ll snap your little wizard’s throat.”

The mage gurgled and spluttered. “Do as he says!” he managed to get out.

The guards backed away, clearing room for Jonah to leave. Several moved ahead of him to spread the word. Despite his ragged prison clothes providing no protection against blades, his blood held true against magic. He carried the mage up into Dragonsreach, the door left open for him.

In the hall, the flames of the fire and the torches burned low, throwing the upper reaches of the high ceiling into complete darkness. It was late, Jonah reasoned. His eyes searched the room but found no more figures than the guards he’d already seen. He glanced rapidly from one to another, and made sure they had had it clear: if any of them made a move, the mage was for it.

He was close to the main doors, already being yanked open for him to reveal the night, when the Jarl appeared at the other end of the hall. Still dressed in his bedclothes, the aged man sized up the situation. A dark elf woman hurriedly putting on the last of her armour was beside him. The Jarl murmured to the woman, who signalled the guards. Bows began to be equipped.

“Farengar,” called the Jarl across the hall. “I’d advise you to cast a protection spell.”

The mage made only another gurgle in response, but his hands moved and his skin took on a different hue. Jonah cursed and backed towards the exit. Abruptly, as arrows were being nocked, he tore the robe from the mage, kicked him back into the hall, and ran.

He made it a few strides before arrows began whizzing past, two landing in his back. He took a great leap and curled into a loose ball, plummeting into the moat at the base of Dragonsreach. He struggled out, still clinging to the robe, scrambling further away as more guards joined the chase, emerging from their patrols around the slumbering city.

As he ran past a blooming tree he struggled into the robe, knowing he’d need the extra protection against the cold. This was Skyrim, after all.

There were guards at the town gates, of course. Jonah had expected that. Instead of slowing, he came in low, knocking down one guard, roaring with the pain in his shoulder. A cut came at his side and he kicked out, wishing for some heavy boots. Ignoring his new wounds, he forced the gate open and exited Whiterun, never to return.

There were more guards on their posting outside, but Jonah paid them no heed. He sprinted straight ahead and jumped from the wall, landing with a crumpled smash on the path below. His legs ached, there was a throbbing pain behind his bad eye, and his shoulder was leaking blood and agony. In addition, there was a new deep cut in his side and arrows jolting from his back.

It was in this state that he accosted the carriage driver, who quailed in his seat.

“You driven any high elves round lately?” he growled.

“A . . . not for ages!” he stammered.

“Think back then,” said Jonah.

“I . . . there was one! A year ago . . . to Windhelm.”

Jonah grinned and, hearing the shouts of guards closing in once more, fled eastward onto the plains of Whiterun. Windhelm it was then, to settle Antario’s score once and for all.


	17. Enough For Some

Reaching Solitude in the evening, the three adventurers met with little success in their quest for vengeance. Gylhain used her various titles as leverage to get them access to the murder scene, but there was little to examine. Vittoria’s body, too, crushed by the gargoyle, provided few clues. They’d spent the evening running all over the city, separately and together, talking to contacts and witnesses, guards and guests who’d seen the murder and ensuing mayhem.

There were some common threads. The slim Dunmer woman had been seen mingling in the reception beforehand, although it seemed she’d only spoken to one person: a priest, who was unable to offer anything useful. The stories the assassin had told him were most likely impromptu lies anyway, the three had reasoned. The werewolf stories were more worrying, however; there were too many witnesses to dismiss it as exaggeration.

As, unbeknownst to them, Jonah was escaping was from his cell, the three gathered in Gylhain’s Proudspire Manor. Her housecarl, Jordis, was nowhere to be found. Hunched around a table, each with their beverage of choice, they attempted to find some direction as the night stretched darker.

Vash had been pleased to find his preferred drink stocked in the cellar: hard cider imported at great cost from Cyrodiil. Gylhain twirled a bottle of wine between her hands, she seemed to Vash to have no preference for vintage. Finally, Dar’epha drank heavily from a tankard of Black-Briar Reserve. Eventually, the Dragonborn spoke.

“I can’t tell you how I came by this,” she said, “but I have a reliable source who tells me there is indeed a werewolf operating as part of the Brotherhood.”

“Shit,” said Dar’epha. “He’s gonna be a pain to kill.”

Vash said nothing, examining Gylhain’s face instead. She was clearly holding something back, perhaps to protect others, perhaps herself. Either way, Vash wasn’t going to ask, not this time. No doubt she’d come across a lot of secrets in her time in Skyrim.

“I’ve fought them before,” said Gylhain. “They’re not too tough. Fast, though.”

“But if all those guards couldn’t contain him . . .” replied Dar’epha.

Gylhain snorted. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, of all people, how incompetent Skyrim’s guards are.”

Vash nodded. One of his main priorities in working with Winterhold’s Jarl had been to improve the guards; they’d been next to useless. It was a slow process, but with Sergius Turrianus’ aid, the guards were gradually switching to enchanted weapons and armour, primed to defend against magic in case of another incident like the Eye of Magnus.

“I think the Elder Council connection is worth consideration,” he said, turning over the evidence in his mind. “First, the amulet presented to the Thieves Guild. Then, that priest said the assassin told him she was the wife of an Elder Council member, here for the wedding.”

“And when I talked to Elisif,” said Gylhain, “she said there weren’t any in Skyrim currently.”

“Yes,” Vash went on, “so why would the assassin say it? It’s not a sensible lie: we discovered the truth very easily. Why not claim to be a lower noblewoman, or a wealthy merchant? Both much harder to disprove. I think a member of the Council must be involved, else how would they have attained the amulet? The Dark Brotherhood may be dealing with this Councillor, that’s why the assassin wove them into her lie. They were simply the first thing to pop into her head.”

Gylhain leaned her elbows on the table, frowning deeply. “That may be so,” she said. “But we’ve no proof, or any leads to follow.”

Dar’epha took a deep gulp of mead, then added, “An Elder Council member dealin with the Dark Brotherhood wouldn’t be travellin under his real name. Wouldn’t want to sully his reputation.” Her last point was mired in sarcasm.

“We could get the word out among the Guild’s contacts,” said Gylhain. “See if there’s any mysterious wealthy foreigners staying in Skyrim.”

Dar’epha rose and drained her tankard. “I’m on it,” she said. “Gulum-Ei is our main fella in town, I’ll get him to pass to the word along.” She moved away from the table and exited the manor out into the night.

The remaining pair sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the new information.

“Do you think the Emperor’s involved at all?” asked Gylhain.

Vash pondered. “I doubt he’d sanction the murder of his own cousin, especially so publically.” His eyes momentarily widened. “He could be a victim—although even the Dark Brotherhood might have trouble assassinating the Emperor.”

Gylhain grunted. “Talked to some of my old friends in the Legion,” she said. “The Penitus Oculatus have been very active recently. Preparing for the Emperor’s arrival, although Elisif denied any knowledge of him coming here.”

She always seem nonchalant about her many titles and positions, Vash noticed. High rank in the Imperial Legion, first-name terms with the High Queen of Skyrim; there was so many pieces to the Dragonborn’s history. It was at that moment that Dar’epha burst back into the manor.

“There’s been another murder!” she breathed. “Just a moment ago, up in the courtyard of Castle Dour.”

Gylhain and Vash rose sharply from their seats.

“Maybe we’ll find something more useful this time,” said Gylhain.

* * *

 

The pyre that always burned in the courtyard’s centre illuminated the murder scene. The young man’s body lay sprawled on the stones, blood seeping from his neck. Six people were gathered around: three guards, a thick-bearded man in guard armour who seemed to be in charge, and two men of the Penitus Oculatus. A short glance at the dead man’s uniform revealed that he too was an agent of that force.

All six turned as the companions approached. The bearded man recognised Gylhain straight away, and advanced to shake her hand.

“Dragonborn,” he hailed her. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re here so quickly.”

“Captain Aldis,” Gylhain responded. “I would be most grateful if my friends and I could examine the body.”

“Of course,” replied Aldis. “Though the Penitus Oculatus believe the matter has been resolved.”

Gylhain crouched on the corpse’s left side, Vash mirroring her on the other. Dar’epha remained standing, her eyes moving fast around the area, analysing escape routes. They could only have missed the assassin by minutes. The guards would have been even sooner; how could the perpetrator have escaped so successfully? Vash gently tipped the dead man’s head back, revealing the cut across his neck that had ended his life so suddenly.

“Who was he?” Gylhain asked the Captain.

“His name was Gaius Maro,” replied Aldis. “He was here doing inspections . . . preparing for the Emperor’s visit.”

“There is no such visit,” cut in one of the Penitus Oculatus agents.

“Please,” said Aldis, “your secret got out. At least have the dignity to admit it.”

The second agent responded instead. “He was also Commander Maro’s son. The leader of the order here in Skyrim. We found this letter on the body.” The agent waved the folded piece of paper he’d been holding. “He was involved in a Stormcloak plot to kill the Emperor. The Dark Brotherhood have done us a service and we now know the plot is foiled. The Emperor will be safe.”

“So he is comin then?” asked Dar’epha with a smirk. The agents looked flustered. She then reached out and tapped the claws of her right paw on the nearest agent’s chest. “Anyway, you been livin under a fuckin’ rock? Stormcloaks’ve been gone for years, thanks to that woman right there.”

Gylhain rose in response to this, while Vash turned his attention back to the body. He ran his finger finely over the wound, examining the nature of the killing stroke.

The agent batted Dar’epha’s paw away and assumed a condescending tone. “Our intelligence shows there are substantial remnants of them scattered across Skyrim. They no doubt orchestrated this assassination to revitalise their rebellion and cause chaos to their advantage.”

“That’s it?” asked Gylhain. “You’re just going to close the investigation?”

“There is nothing left to investigate,” replied the agent. “Good night, sirs and madams.” He bowed shortly and left the courtyard with his colleague.

Vash broke the ensuing silence. “This cut . . .” he said, “it’s the same as the one on Urag. Most likely made by the same person.”

“Our Dunmer friend again?” asked Dar’epha.

“It would seem they didn’t get far out of the city before receiving another contract,” said Vash. He looked up at Gylhain, who was scratching at her chin and frowning.

“The Penitus Oculatus are fools,” she said. “The Commander’s son, a Stormcloak plot? It reeks of something, I don’t know what. But the Brotherhood is in this up to their eyeballs. I need to speak to this Commander Maro.” She turned to Captain Aldis. “When does the Emperor arrive?”

“Officially? He’s not coming,” said Aldis. “But unofficially, sometime tomorrow.”

“I’ll head down to Dragon’s Bridge and speak to Maro in the morning then,” Gylhain said. “It’s too late to start now. Thank you for help, Captain.” They shook hands again.

“Not a problem,” replied Aldis. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Gylhain nodded, turning away.

“I still need to talk to Gulum-Ei,” interjected Dar’epha. “Reckon we’ve got time for a round at the Winking Skeever?”


	18. Disassemblage

“We shouldn’t have let them in,” said Neetrenaza. His arms were crossed and the firelight in the Argonian Assemblage made his frustrated expression clear.

“And who do we have to thank,” retorted Shahvee, “for being able to actually enter Windhelm? Next time you’re drinking at the New Gnisis, you might want to toast the woman who got you there.”

“Agreed,” said Scouts-Many-Marshes. “The Dragonborn has done much for us. It is the least we can do to shelter her friends for a short while.”

“It better be a short while,” said Neetrenaza. “A Nord and a high elf! We shouldn’t have made an exception.”

“We’re right here, you know,” said Kara. The Argonian looked at her, snorted, and exited onto the docks. It had only been a few hours, but already the presence of her and Antario in the Assemblage was beginning to cause problems. A favour for the Dragonborn it might be, but discord was rife and Kara wished the two of them could be out sooner rather than later. She turned to Antario, who had kept quiet during the argument.

“Does this killer even know you’re in Windhelm?” she asked.

Antario gave an elegant shrug. “He has something of a knack for finding me even when I am hidden,” he said. He was sitting on a bench near the fire, his back perfectly straight. Kara, in contrast, was leaning drastically, her feet stretched out towards the warmth. Her broadsword was propped up next to her in case of trouble.

Shahvee approached the pair, slight embarrassment on her face. “We apologise for Neetrenaza,” she said. “He has suffered much from the Nords.”

“It is entirely understandable,” said Antario with a smile. “If you could assure him that we will only be here as long as necessary, that would be most welcome.”

Shahvee nodded and moved away. Antario turned to Kara.

“You are aware that you are under no obligation to stay,” he said.

“We’re fellow lodgers,” she said, like that explained everything. Living under Torbjorn Shatter-Shield’s roof had brought the pair into a sort of friendship, as had their past mutual encounters with Gylhain.

“How is your new occupation progressing?” asked Antario.

Kara grunted. “Quintus knows what he’s on about, but . . . I got a long way to ’fore I’m even a tiny bit good as him.”

“I had no knowledge of your interest in the alchemical arts.”

Kara shrugged with significantly less grace than Antario had managed earlier. “I got good at mixing”—she angled her voice lower—“during the war. Besides, I need the coin.” She stared into the fire, pulling at her threadbare clothes as if the action would create more warmth. “Why ain’t you just turned and killed this fella who’s after you? You got magic in you.”

“A reasonable question,” said Antario. “But my magic—all magic, as far as I am aware—is useless against my pursuer.” Kara frowned and the Altmer continued. “He was modified; how, I do not know. But there is something contained within him, perhaps his blood, which provides a natural resistance to magic.” He paused for a moment. “He came extremely close to dispatching me the first time I discovered this about him. I was somewhat surprised, as you can imagine.”

“But you can still stick him with a sword, right?” asked Kara. “Ain’t no blood that guards ’gainst that.”

“True,” conceded Antario. “But my proficiency with my blade”—he fingered the curved sword at his side—“is not particularly extravagant. He is a trained killer; in a battle of physical strength and skill in weapons, he outclasses me by a terrifying margin. And so, I run.”

The door of the Assemblage swung open and both of them flinched. A new Argonian entered, large and dressed in ragged furs, but with rusted iron gauntlets covering his fists. A small smiling Bosmer followed behind him, dressed in simple brown robes, but unmistakably a mage.

The pair were warmly greeted by Shahvee and Scouts-Many-Marshes, and Kara wondered how an elf had become so welcomed among the Argonians. But the longer she watched, the more she became certain that the new arrivals were a married couple, although the husband said only the occasional word, in a voice so quiet she couldn’t hear across the distance that separated them. Perhaps that was the only way to become accepted here: marry an Argonian.

Eventually, Scouts-Many-Marshes exited, and Shahvee sat on her bed, fixing a tear in an indistinguishable item of clothing. She talked in a low voice at the new Argonian, who sat next to her, listening silently. The Bosmer, however, approached Kara and Antario.

“Good morning!” she said. Kara just grunted, but Antario gave a smile and a return greeting. “I’m Falin,” the wood elf continued, “that’s Kureeth over there. We guard Ri’saad’s caravan, but whenever we’re in town we come by to pay a visit.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said Antario, without any trace of sarcasm. “I trust our presence here has been explained.”

Falin rolled her eyes. “Neetrenaza has already complained about it enough,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention to him, he’s just a big grump.”

Antario smiled like it was nothing. Kara admired his ability to keep up pleasantries even in such situations.

“Do we know what the person who’s after you looks like?” asked Falin. “Give us a description and we can keep an eye out.”

“You’re very eager to help,” said Kara, the elf’s chirpiness grating on her.

Falin raised her hands. “They said it was a favour for the Dragonborn; that’s good enough for me.”

“You have met the Dovahkiin?” asked Antario.

“No,” said Falin, “but she’s done so much for the disadvantaged in Skyrim. The others trust her judgement, so I do too. What did you do to get her to pull favours for you like this? If that’s not a rude question,” she added hastily.

“We share a common enemy,” said Antario. “It is perhaps best not to reveal too much, for which I apologise.”

“No need, no need,” said Falin. She clasped her hands in front of her. “I understand completely. Questions can be a dangerous thing.”

“Indeed,” said Antario. “Although, here I find myself with one on my tongue.” He smiled, Falin chuckled, and Kara groaned. “I cannot help but notice you dress as one who has magical talents?”

“We are easy to recognise, aren’t we?” said Falin. “I was a healer for a long time, back home.”

“Ah, the Restoration school,” said Antario. “If there is one aspect of magic that requires more students, it is that admirable area. Sadly I am only basically proficient myself.”

Falin smiled and sat along the bench from them. “I’ve learnt other stuff too,” she said. “Illusion and Alteration spells to help out Kureeth when he’s fighting. I prefer the more non-violent kind of magic.”

Kara snorted. “And you’re the one they hired to guard a caravan?” she asked.

* * *

 

Outside, Jonah slipped under the ice. He came up for a scratchy breath and clutched his free hand to the edge of the stones. Windhelm docks, his entrance to the city and the conclusion of his task. As he was about to haul himself up, he happened to overhear something.

“Well, when are they going to leave?” came the first voice.

“I don’t know, Neetrenaza, but I’m sure you can handle a little longer,” came the second. “And keep your voice down, we’re supposed to be hiding them.”

The hand of providence reached down to bless Jonah again. He grinned, his mouth heavy with the taste of blood. He pulled himself from the cold water. Before him, the two speakers were revealed to be Argonians. Mouths wide, they backed away from, breaking into a run and vanishing into a nearby door.

Perfect guides to his goal. He pulled forth his stolen sword from the belt of his stolen robes, and stomped, barefoot, across the icy grey stones towards his next kill. Perhaps multiple kills, if he was lucky.

* * *

 

Scouts-Many-Marshes locked the door, while Neetrenaza searched under his bed for a rusty woodcutting axe. He held it in both hands, shaking.

“Biggest human I’ve ever seen,” he stammered.

“Redguard?” asked Antario, now upright, sword in hand. “One white eye?”

“Yes, yes,” said Neetrenaza. “And only one arm.”

“You ain’t mentioned that before,” said Kara, broadsword in hand, pining for her old armour.

“It is a new occurrence,” said Antario. “Gylhain informed me of it in her letter.”

“Well, that should make him pretty easy to take down,” said Kara.

“Do not count on it,” said Antario. He looked about the small, underfurnished room. “I think I will take my leave of you all,” he said. “I appreciate the hospitality more than can be measured in mere words, but I would not wish to endanger any of you with my own problems.”

It was then, of course, that the door began to shudder under the weight of an attack. Falin and Kureeth shared a look, and the Argonian straightened his gauntlets.

“I should have warned you,” said Antario to Falin, “he has a resistance to magic. If you have no physical weapon I would advise a retreat.”

Falin looked at him, questions fighting across her face for dominance. Instead, she said, “Just because he’s resistant to magic doesn’t mean he’s resistant to what magic can do.”

The door began to splinter. The lock gave, and Jonah entered the Assemblage. His blue robes were tattered and soaked through, his hair stuck to his head. Immediately his eyes picked out Antario.

“Traitor,” he growled, “you were so easy to find. Now I’m going to give you a cut for every day I spent in the Imperial City cell. And then—”

And then a lantern hit him in the face. Telekinetically thrown by Falin, the impact threw his head back but was not enough to get him off his feet. She lifted a coal from the fire and brought it to the hem of his robe, setting it alight. Before the fire could get out of control, Kureeth had tackled Jonah back out onto the docks.

Kara and Antario raced to follow, Falin close behind. On the stones, the two burly figures struggled, Jonah’s sword lost in the fray. Kara saw the purpose of Kureeth’s gauntlets as his blows became evident as the stronger of the fight. Falin hurriedly launched a green spell at her husband and a translucent covering came over his skin.

Kureeth immediately headbutted Jonah, the impact cracking bone. The Argonian rolled away, leaving the Redguard spluttering out teeth. Kara’s sword descended, cutting across Jonah’s stomach. He roared and thrashed his remaining limbs. Kara struck again, at his neck. The blood spurted across the stones and the thrashing ceased.

“Problem solved,” she said.

The other Argonians edged out of their Assemblage to view the body.

“Does this mean you’ll be leaving?” asked Neetrenaza, his arrogant manner returned with the threat removed. “And what about our door?”

“I will pay for a new, stronger door,” said Antario. He looked at Falin. “That was some impressively swift casting.”

Kara spat on the stones. “Don’t know why you couldn’ta done something like that ages ago.”

“It appears I was too caught up in the stricter traditions of magic,” he said. “I should be looking to the future, not the past.”

Falin smiled. Kara, too, was looking appreciatively at Kureeth.

“You ain’t got a blade?” she asked. The big Argonian shook his head. “Then you might wanna invest in some proper armoured boots. Double your fun.”

“Soon as we can afford it,” interjected Falin.

Kara looked up and down the docks. “Man, Windhelm’s guards are fucking useless.” She strode to the edge of the stones and dipped her sword in the freezing water to clean it. When she turned back, the Argonians were already retreating into their Assemblage.

“Guess we’re gonna need another invitation if we’re gonna get in there again,” she said.

“I suspect so,” said Antario, distantly, still looking at the corpse.

“Hey,” said Kara, clapping him on the shoulder, causing him to start a little. “Send a reply to Gylhain, tell her we took care of the problem ourselves.”

“Yes,” said Antario. “I wonder why she did not come herself . . . it must have been something big to remove her from her retirement.”

Kara looked towards the stairs at the guards finally appearing. “Probably just saving the world again or something.”


	19. A Clown and a Cook

And things had been going so well for her, ruminated Vialas. The murder of Gaius Maro, despite causing her to turn back to Solitude so soon, had been swift and easy—she’d earned her bonus too. The Emperor was set to arrive, she knew the location of the Gourmet; everything was falling into place. But upon returning to the Sanctuary in the early hours of the morning, she discovered that chaos had erupted in her absence. Astrid, furious, had related the story.

Cicero had completely, finally, snapped. He had slashed around wildly with his knife, attempting to kill Astrid, babbled about her being a pretender. The Night Mother, he yelled—and Vialas cringed as she imagined the words in his shrill voice—was the true leader of the Dark Brotherhood. Gabriella had stepped between them and had taken a deep wound to her side. Upon hearing this, Vialas had ceased to listen to the account and had rushed to her fellow Dunmer’s side.

Babette was performing admirably in Festus’ absence, and assured Vialas that Gabriella would pull through. In the dining room, with Babette and Gabriella looking on from above, the Brotherhood gathered. Astrid, Nazir, and Vialas. Reduced in number but never cowed. They had agreed unanimously that Cicero must die; Arnbjorn had already left in pursuit to see to it.

Veezara, it had been confirmed, had been killed outside Whiterun. Festus Krex they presumed dead, but nobody felt like strolling up to the Dragonborn’s house to make sure. And so Vialas rode north, upon the black horse Shadowmere.

“You know the saying,” Nazir said. “When life gives you lemons, go murder a clown.”

By noon she was outside the Dawnstar Sanctuary with the wounded Arnbjorn. Cicero’s journal had contained the password for that Black Door, but it was not needed. The Door stood open, off its hinges, the entrance layered with snow.

Delving into the depths of the abandoned lair, she avoided the jester’s traps and ignored his echoed ramblings.

He would die, that was certain. Violently. Nobody harmed the Brotherhood and got away with it, she thought. Indeed, Nazir was already in the process of discovering who had killed Veezara. The Dragonborn would pay too, although that, complex as it would need to be, could wait until current matters were dealt with.

Vialas abandoned all attempts at subtlety and kicked open the final door. Her action brought the traitorous clown into view, lying on his side in a pool of his own blood, giggling still. Unable to stand, he babbled, blood seeping out of his mouth alongside his words. Vialas approached, her dagger drawn.

“You caught me!” he yelled, despite the short distance between them. “I surrender!” He descended into another fit of giggling.

Vialas found that her voice was flat, although she hadn’t killed this way in a long time. No contract here, only anger. “There’s only one cure for your madness, Cicero,” she said, lowering her centre of gravity and preparing for a killing strike. “Me.”

Cicero cackled. “Oh, I like that! Very good, very good! Creative, yes. But killing me would be a mistake, oh yes. You would displease our Mother, hmm?” His voice rose in pitch, becoming yet more fevered. Vialas grimaced. “For she’s your Mother too, isn’t she, Listener? So walk away! Let poor Cicero live! Tell the pretender Astrid that you did the job, stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero! One little itty bitty lie!” He looked up at Vialas with an imploring expression. She didn’t even need to think about it.

“Do what you will, Cicero has no fight left,” he went on. “In the end, Sithis will judge us both.” He lapsed into silence.

Vialas lunged forward with her dagger, attempting to surprise him and end the matter quickly. But Cicero, seemingly ignoring his wound, rolled quickly to the side, jumped to his feet and laughed.

“Behold!” he exclaimed. “The final trick of the Fool of Hearts! You think me near death? Think again!” He came at Vialas with his own dagger, swinging and jerking manically. “Stab you, stab you, stab you!” he yelled.

Vialas always preferred to avoid the uncertainty of direct confrontation, but if it came down to it, she could handle herself well enough. Moving just as fast as her opponent, she swayed backwards, avoided his cuts, then darted in for a quick slash to his left arm before leaping away again to her right.

Cicero’s only reaction to his new wound was to laugh even more. “Go on!” he said. “Hit me again!”

Vialas obliged. Moving faster than even the veteran assassin could, she pushed herself towards him. She grabbed his right wrist in her left hand and at the same moment swung her blade swiftly across his exposed neck. Letting go of his wrist, she kicked him away from her. He staggered, then fell backwards, his head thunking on the stone.

So ended Cicero, happily denied any final words. Vialas turned and walked through the corridors to the exit. Maybe without him, she thought, there could be peace in the Dark Brotherhood again. Of its own strange kind, perhaps.

Just inside the Black Door she found Arnbjorn, propped up against the wall, holding his hands against his side. He was obviously still in pain, but blood was no longer seeping through his fingers, and he attempted to rise at the sight of Vialas.

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

Vialas nodded. “Cicero has been consigned to the Void. May our fortunes turn for the better now he’s gone.”

“Don’t be so sure,” grunted Arnbjorn. “Haven’t you got a chef to kill?”

“Yes. You take Shadowmere and get back to the Sanctuary. I can manage fast enough on foot.” She moved for the door.

“Hey, Vialas,” she heard from behind her. She turned to see Arnbjorn stumbling to his feet. “You did good today,” he said. “Good luck with what’s coming.”

Vialas even managed a smile at that. Now with that little bit of personal business dealt with, she could move one step closer to the Emperor, with the aid of the Gourmet.

* * *

 

A cook in Markarth, terrified of Babette’s teeth, had earlier revealed the name and location of the famed chef. He was an orc, by the name of Balagog gro-Nolob, currently hiding in the Nightgate Inn, waiting to be summoned to cook for the Emperor. However, Vialas intended to find him first.

She was starting to grow fond of her stolen cloak, which had proved so useful back in Morthal. She wrapped it tighter around herself against the wind as she approached. It was then she noticed him, fishing, of all things, at the end of the jetty on the little lake behind the inn. She paused and picked up a fist-sized rock. She walked carefully forward, not letting her steps become audible on the wood.

“Balagog gro-Nolob?” she asked.

The orc abruptly rose, dropping his pole. It slipped off and into the water, though he did not seem to notice.

“Who . . . who’s asking?” he said.

“The new Gourmet,” she answered, and brained him with the rock in her hand. Vialas looked around. Nobody in sight. Moving with precision, she stripped the orc of his fancy clothes, and slipped them on over her own. The cloak went back on top, and she felt herself significantly warmer with the addition of the new layer.

In the pockets she found the Writ she had been looking for, which proclaimed its holder as the Gourmet and would grant her access to the kitchens of Solitude. The poisonous jarrin root she would use for the job was transferred to a new pocket for easier access.

She stalked around for a moment to find a large fishing net, returning to wrap the orc’s body in it, including as many rocks as she could fit. Her knots were tight, as always. Then she flipped the corpse and its comrades into the lake. It disappeared almost instantly from view, vanishing beneath the surface into the black water.

She waited until the ripples faded, then set course once again for Solitude.

* * *

 

“By Azura, the Gourmet!” the Commander exclaimed.

Vialas couldn’t stop a grin spreading across her face; she was enjoying herself immensely. The chef’s hat and apron she’d pilfered from a local merchant completed the image. The fact that the father of the man she’d killed only a few feet away was letting her in was just the icing on the cake. She congratulated herself at thinking in culinary metaphors; all the better to absorb herself into her character.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,” Commander Maro went on. “We had no idea who to expect. But please, don’t let me keep you. The Emperor is already here and Gianna, the castle chef, has been eagerly awaiting you.”

Nodding respectfully, Vialas swept through the doors and into the tower. Born for the task, Astrid had said, and she couldn’t help but agree with her. She strode straight to the kitchens, adjusted her hat, and assumed the attitude of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The chef, Gianna, was already stirring a large pot when she entered the room.

“Not more deliveries!” exclaimed the Redguard woman. “Put whatever you have over there and get out, quickly.”

Vialas smiled and added a deeper, melodramatic note to her voice. “No deliveries, for I am . . . the Gourmet!” She resisted the urge to cackle with glee. This was too good.

“Oh, finally!” said Gianna. “When I heard the Gourmet was being brought in, I could hardly believe it.” The woman hesitated, then continued. “It’s just . . . well, I can’t believe the Gourmet is a dark elf. How difficult it must have been for you in Morrowind, the food there is . . . and the ash . . .”

Vialas waved her hand. “Enough!” she proclaimed. “The Gourmet is here to cook, not to talk! Let us begin.” She peered forward. “What is happening in this pot here?”

“The . . . Emperor has requested your signature dish, the _Potage le Magnifique,_ ” said Gianna, after a frown. “I’ve taken the liberty of getting it started, but the cookbook—your cookbook—only says so much. I would be honoured if we could make it . . . the Gourmet’s special way. The base broth is already boiled, what should I add next?”

Vialas stroked her chin, as if thinking deeply. In reality, she was merely trying to think of the most ridiculous ingredients she could get away with. Finally, she said, “A sweetroll is required.”

“Ooh, how decadent,” replied Gianna, dutifully adding it. “What next?”

“Next is . . . vampire dust!” exclaimed Vialas, getting into the swing of it.

“Seriously? Hmm, I can imagine how that would add a more . . . earthy texture. And strangely enough, we do have some on hand. In it goes.” She continued stirring, looking up expectantly, clearly enraptured at the Gourmet’s insight.

“We must now add . . . a giant’s toe!” With this sentence is was especially hard for Vialas to not burst out laughing. Somehow, she retained her composure, acting as if this was all commonplace for her.

“Are you sure about that?” asked Gianna, incredulous.

Vialas raised her voice an octave. “Do not presume to question the Gourmet! I said: a giant’s toe!”

“Of course, of course, I’m sorry . . . there it goes, one giant’s toe. Anything else?” Gianna seemed awed by the outburst. Vialas smiled and imagined biting into the cook’s smooth neck.

“Just one more special ingredient.” She removed the jarrin root from her pocket, dangling it over the pot. She contemplated the consequences of her actions for the first time. What could the assassination of the Emperor achieve? What did Amaund Motierre stand to gain?

“What is that, some sort of herb?” asked Gianna, stooped to examine it. “Are you sure, any other ingredient might dilute the—”

Vialas cut her off in a conversational tone. “Now, now, Gianna, who’s the Gourmet here?” She smiled another winning smile and crushed the root in her hand, scattering it into the pot. Damn the consequences; she had a contract to fulfil.

“Heh. I’m sorry, it is your recipe, after all.” Gianna smiled back, her cheeks reddening. “I think it’s done, come on. I’m sure the Emperor and his guests are just dying to meet you.”

Ascending the stairs behind Gianna, who grunted with the heft of the pot, Vialas let the relief of success sweep over her. Dinner was served.


	20. Death Incarnate

Dar’epha woke with a start as the door to her room in Proudspire Manor banged open. She rose sharply and regretted the movement immediately. Squinting, she saw it was Vash responsible for the noise.

“What is it?” she mumbled. “Is Gyl back yet?”

“She was, but then she left again.” The orc tapped his foot a few times, then vanished from the doorframe. When he returned, he had his pack over his shoulder. “Get up,” he said. “Quickly. We need to get moving.”

Stumbling up, Dar’epha peered out of the window. The sun had not even started to creep fully across the horizon; only a few faint rays penetrated the sky. “What’s going on?” she asked, starting to pull on her armour.

“There was a murder, just an hour ago. That Dunmer woman we’ve been after posed as the Gourmet and tried to poison the Emperor.” Vash began tapping his feet again, averting his eyes unnecessarily as Dar’epha finished dressing. “It was a decoy: the Penitus Oculatus knew in advance. Apparently Maro had a deal with the Brotherhood leader, Astrid. They abandon the contract on the Emperor and Maro gets to kill the woman who killed his son.”

Dar’epha made sure her daggers were in place and picked up her bow and quiver. She followed Vash out of the room and downstairs.

“And the Brotherhood get to keep operating?” she asked.

“That was the deal,” said Vash. “But Maro went back on it. His men are preparing to assault the Brotherhood’s sanctuary now. Gylhain is with them.”

“Where?” was Dar’epha’s only question.

“Falkreath,” said Vash. “We can take the carriage.”

Fully armed and hoping to finally see some action, the pair headed at speed for the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood.

* * *

 

Gylhain had not had much of a head start on her friends. Her conversation with Commander Maro had been illuminating, to say the least. The Dunmer woman had been set up by her own leader, but the Brotherhood were being set up by Maro. Reasoning the death of the entire Brotherhood more important than all else, Gylhain travelled south in a rage—no time to rouse her friends—and met the assigned troops outside the sanctuary.

Crouching among the Penitus Oculatus, she turned again, frustrated at the waste of time, to the agent to her right. “They’ve got to know we’re here, and the longer we sit the more certain that’s going to get.”

“You’re not in charge here,” said the agent. “We wait for orders.”

“Fucking orders,” said Gylhain. “It’s like being back in the Legion.” She pulled on her ebony helmet and drew Chillrend. “I’m going for vengeance; you’re welcome to join me.” She broke into a run, heading straight for the Black Door. It was time for blood.

There was no break in her stride, only a drawing of breath as she approached.

“ _Fus-ro-dah!_ ” Her voice thundered ahead of her and the door flew off its hinges and down a staired corridor. Leaping over it, she advanced into the sanctuary. Behind her, the agents scrambled to catch up, carrying torches and oil with which to set the place ablaze.

Leaping down the stairs four and five at a time, Gylhain descended into the home of the assassins like a wrathful god.

The first chamber was empty, so she went further. In what seemed to be the main chamber, she was faced with a hulking werewolf—no doubt the same who had caused so much chaos in Solitude only three days prior. The beast came at her with furious speed.

But Gylhain knew more about werewolves than most: she had been Harbinger of the Companions for a short while and, unbeknownst to those outside the group’s inner circle, she’d briefly been a werewolf herself. Although she’d cast the witch’s head into the flames and removed her curse, she still knew exactly where to bring the pain.

The beast leapt at her, its long arms and vicious claws reaching for her throat. But she ducked and rolled under its leap, swinging her sword backwards as she did, delivering a cut to the back of the creature’s left leg. It howled and came at her again, raining blows upon her shield.

Gylhain did not stagger or give an inch of ground to the hail of strikes, not did her gear give way to the strength of her foe. Pushing back with her shield, she barrelled into the werewolf, slashing at its chest and arms, just having space for a quick strike across the nose before ducking to avoid another aimed at her head.

As she rose, her sword rose with her, and plunged deep into the beast’s chest. It howled and thrashed, its arms whirling in an attempt to dislodge its foe. Gylhain retracted her blade, then struck again. The beast howled even louder, gurgled and fell backwards.

Smoke billowed down from the way she’d come; the Penitus Oculatus doing their job, regardless of Gylhain’s presence. She knew she only had minutes before the place was an inferno.

Proceeding further into the sanctuary, she found something she hadn’t expected: a small child, crouched pitifully in a corner, sobbing. Gylhain frowned, deeply suspicious. A child, in the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary? As far as she knew, they took no prisoners. Which could only mean . . .

The child turned to face her, grinning with pure malice. The grin of a vampire. The child sprang at her throat, but she was faster, her sword coming down to end the creature’s life in a flash. Her foot turned the child’s body out of her path, a nebulous swirl of darkness swamping her thoughts.

A flash of colour caught her eye and she raised her shield just in time to block the deadly bite of a large frostbite spider, its fangs dripping with its viscous venom. It attacked again, and she was on the verge of dispatching it as she’d done with so many of its kind, when two projectiles appeared in it: an arrow and a spike of ice. Death came quickly for the spider, and Gylhain turned to find her two comrades.

Dar’epha was already putting another arrow to her bow. Vash had spells ready in both hands: another freezing point of ice in one, and a crackling bolt of lightning in the other. The air around him appeared to shimmer, some sort of aura cascading over his skin. Gylhain was glad they were on her side, and glad they’d come despite her abandoning them.

The flames were gathering momentum. Dar’epha looked around nervously.

“We should get out here, Gyl,” she said. “I got no desire to get singed fur again.”

“There might be another exit,” said Gylhain. “And more of _them._ ”

Vash spoke cautiously. “This place isn’t going to last much longer. I can clear a path out for us, but it should be soon, I—”

He was cut off as two Brotherhood assassins emerged from a side door: a Dunmer woman in hood and robe, carrying two daggers; and a Nord woman with a long thin sword.

All three of the comrades reacted immediately. Gylhain ran for the new foes, but was too far away. Dar’epha launched two arrows in quick succession. The first was a bullseye, hitting the elf in the neck; the second less so, taking the Nord in the shoulder. But as she nocked her second arrow, Vash was already in action. He launched an icy spear towards the Dunmer, catching her full in the chest, then followed with a jagged bolt of lightning at the Nord, throwing her back just after Dar’epha’s arrow struck her.

The elf woman crumpled to the ground, dead. The Nord rose, undeterred. It was at that second that Gylhain cleaved the lower half of her sword-arm from her body. A fraction of a heartbeat later, another arrow hit the woman, this time in the chest. She staggered back. Vash lunged forward, a blue-ish ethereal sword appearing in his hand as he moved. He hacked at the woman’s neck and she went down.

The three stood in silence for a moment. Gylhain looked appreciatively at Vash. “Not bad, for a scholar,” she said.

Vash breathed out. “They didn’t put me in charge for my looks,” he replied, an echo of a smile flashing across his face. It vanished as he crouched to examine the dead Dunmer. “This is not the woman I saw at the College.”

“Guess that means Maro did his job,” said Gylhain.

Dar’epha coughed. “Could we perhaps save this til we’re not bein burned alive in an assassin’s lair?” she asked. Despite this, she then ducked down and snatched a dagger from the Nord woman’s belt, tucking it into her own.

“Right,” said Gylhain, some of her vengeful mist clearing. “Let’s get out of here.”

The three ran for the exit. Vash sprayed arcs of ice at flames that got too close. Bursting out into the open air, they coughed heavily to clear the smoke from their lungs. There was the sound of hooves and Commander Maro was before them, sweating from a swift horse ride.

“The woman got away,” he said bitterly.

“You couldn’t take down one skinny little elf?” asked Dar’epha, incredulous.

“She killed seven of my agents during her escape,” said Maro. “You did not find her within? I assumed she would head here straight away.”

“No,” said Gylhain. “But everyone else inside is dead, or will be soon.”

“Good,” said Maro firmly. “My men will remain here, and ensure none escape or remain after the fires have burned out.” He turned his horse towards the road. “We will continue the search for the elf woman, but she is alone, and the last of her kind. We will find her.” He trotted away.

Dar’epha spoke through gritted teeth. “He couldn’t find that elf if she had her dagger up his arsehole.” Vash raised an eyebrow at that one.

“You’re right,” said Gylhain. “Our work isn’t over just yet.”


	21. Remnant

Vialas kept the hood of her cloak up as she entered the Bannered Mare. She made silent footfalls towards the back room and tried not to think about the burned Sanctuary. She’d been unable to even get near the place, surrounded by Penitus Oculatus as it had been. She would assume that all her brethren were dead; it was easier that way.

The benches around the fire were filling as the evening crowd gathered, but none paid any note of Vialas, each absorbed in their own petty troubles. Her own troubles were immense, with the ability to shape the future of Tamriel. She managed a bitter grin at that.

There would be no escape for the Emperor this time, she thought. No decoys, no poison, no double-crossing, just Titus Mede II on the end of her dagger. She’d watch him bleed out and make sure he could never rise again.

Amaund Motierre jumped in his seat when Vialas entered and closed the door behind her. The two were alone in the small room, muffled sounds from the rest of the inn still coming through the wood.

“What is it?” he said. “I said I didn’t wish to be disturbed.”

Vialas threw her hood back. “We have unfinished business, Motierre,” she said. She struggled to keep her voice flat as imagined pictures of the twisted, burned bodies of her brothers and sisters came again to her mind. She only hoped they’d taken a few down with them.

“By the Gods, you’re alive!” he exclaimed, rising from his chair so sharply that it fell backwards with a harsh clack. “But I heard . . . your sanctuary. Please, you mustn’t think I had anything to do with that! I want the Emperor dead, the true Emperor. All that business with the decoy, that was Maro’s doing—”

“The Emperor,” she said, cutting him off, “the real one. Where is he?”

“You mean after all that’s transpired, the Dark Brotherhood will still honour the contract? This is wonderful news!” A great smile spread across Motierre’s face. “The Emperor is still in Skyrim, but who knows for how much longer. You must hurry! He is aboard his ship, the Katariah, moored offshore in the Solitude inlet. If you can get aboard and kill Titus Mede II, then I will reveal the location of the dead drop that contains your payment.”

Vialas had realised something on the way to Whiterun: the money meant nothing to her. No matter how much gold Motierre had stashed away, she wasn’t interested. If there was no Brotherhood to support with such funds, then what was the use of it? The Sanctuary lay in ruins, beyond repair even if its secrecy had not been compromised.

For the first time, on her way, she had dwelt on Motierre’s motives. An Empire in chaos, a snake thrashing after the removal of its head. What sort of person could benefit from that specific kind of political maelstrom? She wondered if Motierre had designs on the throne for himself. A whole dynasty of Motierres, all the way down to the next uprising, the next assassination, or until the Aldmeri Dominion grew tired and swallowed them all in its maw.

She looked the small snivelling man up and down, increasingly disgusted. If she didn’t need the location of the gold, then what use was he? The doors were closed, her blade was true, he was apparently unarmed. He became nervous at the scrutiny and started jittering.

“You must hurry, I said,” he stammered out, shrinking away.

Vialas pressed him against the wall, her gloved hand over his mouth. He flailed uselessly against her superior grip. With the other hand, she found a leftover piece of jarrin root and forced it down his throat. She returned her hand to his mouth and held him as he slipped into his death throes, preventing his flails from making any unnecessary noise.

She propped up his body in the chair, then went through his pockets. A collection of gems—almost one of each variety, oddly enough, along with a few dozen septims. She took the lot, to make it seem a robbery, but would dump them as soon as she was out of the city.

She tried not to lose faith in her own skills. The biggest, trickiest job of her life was before her, and she would need all her confidence and multifaceted swiftness to pull it off. In her mind she ran through all of the murders she’d committed since coming to Skyrim: from the body of Motierre before her, all the way back to Grelod the Kind. It was an impressive tally, albeit one nobody else would ever know of. Vialas did not need praise, but she would, at that moment, have given up all that she had to be able to swap stories with Gabriella, Nazir, and Veezara. Especially Gabriella. Wounded as she’d been, she would not have fared well when—no. She wouldn’t think about Gabriella, not now. Distractions could not be afforded, not when there was an Emperor to kill.

She slipped out the door, leaving the gap as narrow as she could, but nobody seemed any the wiser to what had occurred in the back room. They drank and ate and talked on. The heat and press of bodies was sickening to her, but she felt the need for a drink. One drink, she conceded, then she’d be on her way. She pushed down disgust at her own lingering and ordered a bottle of mead with Motierre’s septims.

She leaned against a wall in the firelight and watched the people, gulping occasionally. A large Imperial caught her eye and she felt a flutter of recognition: Motierre’s bodyguard from Volenruud, although she’d be damned if she could remember his name. He rose from his bench and approached her, swaying slightly on every other step.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, too loudly. “We heard you were dead. Motierre’s in the back room, if you’ve got business.”

“Already seen him,” she murmured, trying to finish her drink as soon as possible.

“That so?” the bodyguard asked. She wished for the freedom to cut his throat. “And you’re gonna”—he leaned in conspiratorially, his stinking breath wrinkling her nose—“finish the job?”

“If you get out of my face,” she growled.

“Hey now,” he said. “No reason to . . . get upset. Just doin my job.”

“You seem to be doing an awful lack of bodyguarding,” she said.

He flung his arms wide and almost toppled over. “Man can’t have a bit of fun and do some bodyguardin at the same time?”

Vialas smiled at him and finished her mead. “Evidently not,” she said, and headed for the exit.

“Wassat supposed to mean?” he called after her.

But Vialas was already out in the cool night of Whiterun, her hood pulled up. She didn’t know what she’d do after the completion of the contract. Reform the Brotherhood? Her own recruitment had been . . . unconventional, she wouldn’t know where to start in building a clan of assassins from scratch. Besides, she’d never had the temperament of a leader. Perhaps she’d leave Skyrim. Maybe she’d bled it so dry there was nothing left for her.

She shook her head to regain focus as she walked. There was still some more blood left to spill.


	22. Sins of the Unworthy

Vash slid into the bench next to Dar’epha, the two of them facing Gylhain on the other side. The Dragonborn still wore her armour, the helmet now resting on the table. Indeed, her chest and arms were still splattered with blood, but the other patrons seemed not be as bothered by this as Vash would have expected. On the trip down Dar’epha had explained that Gylhain had retired with his wife to a hut near Falkreath, before the Dark Brotherhood struck.

Silence weighed over their table, the sounds of Dead Man’s Drink moving around them but never encompassing them. Vash could hear the local bard doing a passable rendition of _Ragnar the Red_ , the locals sifting in and out; drinking, eating, talking, any attempt at engaging the Dragonborn in conversation abandoned when the condition of her armour and the look on her face were spotted. Finally, Gylhain spoke.

“I’m sorry I left without you,” she said, not looking either of them in the eyes. Vash reckoned that he didn’t know her well enough to speak here, and as Dar’epha also kept silent, Gylhain went on.

“I . . . something came over me. All I could think of was tearing down that place, with my bare hands if I had to.” She paused and stared upwards. “I’ve been angry before, but this was different, single-minded, I . . .” She trailed off.

Vash raised his eyes from his bottle. “I understand,” he said. “After Urag was killed, when I left Winterhold, that’s how I felt. Like nothing else mattered, like I wouldn’t be whole again until my task was complete.” Gylhain nodded at this, absently.

Dar’epha took a long swig from her drink. “Forget it,” she said after wiping her mouth with the back of her paw. “I probably woulda done the same. It’s done with.”

“Not quite,” said Gylhain, planting both fists on the table. “The Dunmer woman we’ve been after escaped Maro’s trap. And she wasn’t in the sanctuary. She’s the one who killed Urag, and the Emperor’s cousin, and Gaius Maro.”

“And she tried to kill the Emperor,” added Vash quietly.

“Which was clearly what they were working towards,” said Gylhain. “We need to finish the job.”

“’Cause she’ll be doin the same?” asked Dar’epha.

“Exactly,” said Gylhain. “We need to get to him before she does. The Dark Brotherhood never abandons a contract, no matter how many of them there are. We have to get back to Solitude—when she makes her move, we’ll be ready.”

Dar’epha spat. “You know I hate gettin into politics.”

It was then that a slim, exhausted man entered the inn and approached Gylhain. He handed over a letter, then vanished. She tore it open, grumbling about never being able to hide from couriers. Her eyebrows went up as she read.

“From Antario,” she said. “Seems Jonah got out and came looking for him.”

“Thought you said you hid him,” said Dar’epha.

Gylhain nodded. “In the Argonian Assemblage.”

Vash asked, “I thought they didn’t let anyone else in there?”

“They owed me a favour or two.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” smiled Dar’epha.

“Anyway,” continued Gylhain, “seems Jonah found them—Antario doesn’t say how—and they killed him.”

“Who is they?” asked Vash. “The Argonians? They are dock workers, not fighters.”

“Kara was with him,” said Gylhain. “Old friend of mine, I guess, now his. And a couple he says work as caravan guards: Kureeth and Falin.”

Dar’epha abruptly cackled. “Those two?” she asked. She held a thumb and forefinger a hair away from each other. “I was this close to winnin a small fortune off ’em just the other day. I always wondered if they’re as good as Ri’saad says. Strange, them turnin up just when they’re needed.”

“This province appears to be bursting with coincidences,” agreed Vash.

“You ’spect it with the Guild,” Dar’epha went on, “we got shadowy forces”—here she wiggled her fingers ridiculously—“workin in our favour. But elseways? Somethin weird’s always goin' on round ‘ere.”

“An accurate summary of Skyrim, I think,” said Vash.

“I suspect it’s much like this everywhere else,” said Gylhain.

“’Course, you’d ’ave to check,” said Dar’epha.

“Isn’t this Antario annoyed you were not there?” asked Vash. “I understood you agreed to protect him.”

Gylhain shrugged. “I suppose I should feel bad about that, huh? I’ll refund him if he wants, matter’s dealt with.” She paused and frowned, seemingly regretting such an outburst. “I might pay him a visit after we’re done with all this. Apologise, or something.”

“Guards oughta beef up the cells in Dragonsreach, too,” said Dar’epha.

“Then how would you and your Guild friends break out?” asked Vash with a smile.

Dar’epha was on the verge of a retort when the door to the inn opened again and a Penitus Oculatus agent entered, scanned the room, and approached the trio. When they spoke, however, they addressed only the Dragonborn.

“Commander Maro wishes you to know that the sanctuary has been searched completely. Nobody was hiding in there that wasn’t already dead.”

“Thank you,” said Gylhain, standing up to shake the agent’s hand. Vash had already noticed the respectful way with which she treated common soldiers and servants. The agent left the inn.

“That confirms it,” said the Dragonborn, “we should get moving.” She left her drink unfinished, although Dar’epha drained hers in a flash.

“How we gonna get to see the Emperor anyway?” she asked as they rose. Gylhain dropped more gold than necessary on the table.

“I’m the Dragonborn, remember?” she said. There was a smile on her face then that Vash thought almost genuine. “We’ve got the Archmage here too. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble."

“What about me?” asked Dar’epha as they moved to the door.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll let you tag along,” said Gylhain.


	23. Returning Fire

There was an almost constant stream of small boats between the Solitude docks and the Katariah. Messengers, suppliers, advisors, all swarming in the bay beneath the arch. All overseen by Commander Maro, his voice ringing out across the water.

Vialas moved beneath all of this, swimming gently under the wooden jetties, following the voices above. She lurked behind poles and slipped beneath the water whenever someone came too close. It wasn’t hard to pick out Maro’s voice.

“The Emperor has agreed to see you,” he was saying. There was a response she couldn’t make out, then there were three thumps as another boat loaded up with bodies. As it pulled out, Vialas took a peek at its contents. She barely suppressed a hiss at the sight of the orc mage from the College. Alongside him in the boat was a Khajiit, clearly of the Thieves Guild—so there went that agreement. And pulling at the oars with powerful strokes was a woman in ebony armour. Vialas could not make out her face, but stayed well out of sight until they were climbing up onto the Emperor’s ship.

It was then that she slipped up a pole, curled over onto the jetty, and slipped a poisoned pin—her last—into Maro’s thigh. The slight prick made him start, but she was already back in the water, heading for her true contact. She had plenty more tricks stored away in her pockets for those still left.

* * *

“I suspected as much,” said the Emperor of Tamriel. “The Dark Brotherhood is not known for abandoning their contracts.”

“That was our conclusion as well, milord,” said the Dragonborn. She stood between her two companions, addressing Titus Mede II, who sat in a padded chair on the other side of a desk piled with books and documents.

“And you and . . . your friends are here to offer me protection, no doubt,” the Emperor went on. Vash wondered if Gylhain was using the correct form of address.

“Even if I were not of the Legion, I would still consider it a duty,” said Gylhain. Vash folded his arms, more interested in examining the cabin’s bookshelf than the ongoing conversation, but still taking in everything that was said. Dar’epha fidgeted, eyes flashing at the four Penitus Oculatus agents on duty.

“Your loyalty is commendable,” spoke the Emperor. “And I had indeed hoped to speak with you, Dovahkiin, before leaving Skyrim. However . . .”

At that moment another agent burst into the cabin, before remembering himself at the last second and giving a sharp salute.

“Apologies for the interruption, your majesty,” stammered the agent. “But Commander Maro has just been found murdered on the docks.”

“Thank you,” said the Emperor. He rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands in front of his face. “Put everyone on the highest of alerts. Dismissed.” The agent exited.

“It’s her!” burst out Dar’epha. “It’s got to be.”

Gylhain’s frown matched the Emperor’s. She took her helmet out of the crook of her arm and pulled it onto her head. “With your permission, milord, the assassin may already be on board. It would be best to construct a defence within this room, should she get past your own forces.”

The Emperor nodded slowly. “Take whatever action you feel necessary.” He looked at Vash. “Although I would prefer no fire spells, a flaming ship would not be to our advantage.”

“Of course,” replied Vash. He began to weave green lights between his fingers. “With your permission, a protection spell . . .”

The Emperor nodded, despite the obvious unease of the agents present, and the green light swept over him, hardening his skin against attack.

“I’m goin out there,” said Dar’epha, moving for the door. “If anyone can track her down ’fore she gets here, it’s me.”

Gylhain gave no objection, but Vash held out a hand. “Wait,” he said. Another green light came from his hands to sweep over her. “Something to hold off being stabbed.”

Dar’epha scoffed. “As if she’ll get that close.” She left the cabin.

* * *

 

Dar’epha followed the screams. It appeared the assassin had dispensed, in part, with subtlety, and was massacring her way through the ship. She supposed it wasn’t impossible for even killers to feel attachment to each other, and wondered if they knew who had burned the sanctuary.

They met on a balcony above the dining room. Assessing each other with impatience, each eager for the blood to follow. Dar’epha drew the ebony dagger she’d taken from the sanctuary and was surprised at the rage that immediately spilled across the Dunmer woman’s face.

“You . . . the Blade of Woe! You killed Astrid, and the others.” The voice came out closer to a hiss than recognisable speech.

“I had some help. Blade of Woe, huh?” said Dar’epha, trying to keep it steady in her paw. “Nice name.”

They came at each other, blades drawn. They met in a flurry of limbs and points. Dar’epha soon found her brawls with fellow thieves and tumbles while fighting alongside Gylhain were no preparation for the speed and fury of this assassin. It took every ingrained reaction she had to fend off the blows, to keep that point away from her skin.

No ground was given, and Dar’epha noticed Penitus Oculatus agents closing in around them, swords drawn. Dar’epha managed to hold enough thoughts together to speak.

“You know, your little band of assassins didn’t put up much of a fight.” She gritted her teeth as her foe’s dagger narrowly missed her ear. “Went down pretty easy, really.”

“Blood . . . for my family . . . will be repaid a hundred fold,” came the answer through clenched teeth.

“Family?” managed Dar’epha. “Divines, you are a—”

But the assassin kicked her away and withdrew a scroll from a pocket. Dar’epha frowned, unsure what to expect. When the fire started to sweep outwards, she dived from the balcony and landed on all fours below, on the dining table. A candlestick jolted into her side.

Above her, the inferno spread quickly. The Penitus Oculatus flailed, struggling to douse its spread. The assassin was already gone.

“Ah, shit,” said Dar’epha.

* * *

 

The smell of smoke came to them first. Then it began to rise through the floorboards of the cabin. The agents advised the Emperor to leave immediately.

He agreed and rose from his chair. “Your efforts are appreciated,” he said, looking at Gylhain and Vash, “but I cannot remain on a burning ship.” He headed towards the balcony door.

“Wait,” said Gylhain. “Give me your clothes.”

* * *

 

The fire was appropriate, Vialas thought. They burned her home, so she would burn theirs. Or the closest she could manage. Visions of the entire Imperial City in flames came to her then, with regret.

She went through the final door without caution. She regretted it immediately, but saw that the cabin was empty. She cursed, out loud, but then saw a figure in Imperial robes, huddled in a corner, coughing at the gathering smoke.

She made the distance in a second and brought her dagger down, but it was halted before its destination by a large hand gripping her wrist. The face that came into view was not of an old Imperial man, but a Breton woman, her face rent with rage and satisfaction.

* * *

 

Dar’epha, who had seen the origin of the fire, was pursued by it all the way up onto the deck. She watched as the Penitus Oculatus and the crew abandoned ship, some in small boats, others leaping into the water. Some called to her, but she waved their cries away.

Khajiit did not, as a rule, like water. Enough to drink was acceptable, but even a light shower gave Dar’epha the feeling that she would stink forever. Now, faced with the prospect of having to swim to shore, thanks to her own dilly-dallying, she was not enjoying herself.

The deck burned quickly and she retreated to the forward end of the ship—she tried to distract herself by thinking of the correct name for it, but could come up with nothing. She trod quickly out onto the bowsprit—this, at least, she knew the name for—balancing expertly on the thin wood. Only one way out now.

She almost stumbled on a surprise blade: a scimitar, embedded in the wood. She made a quick decision, pulled it out, took a deep breath, and plunged into the waters of Solitude bay.

* * *

 

“Where’s the Emperor?” said Vialas, her voice growing shrill. No, not a failure, not now.

Gylhain kicked her across the room and rose, Chillrend in hand. Even in the overly fancy robes of Imperial office, she still gave the impression of danger and death.

“Gone,” she said. “This isn’t about the Emperor. This is you and me.”

Vialas rose. Gylhain picked up a book from the Emperor’s desk and hurled it not at her foe, but past her at the wall. It set off one of the few surprises Vash had left behind: a lightning rune. The bolts drove into the dark elf, sending her back to the floor with a scream. The smoke grew thicker, and flames became visible through the door.

“Who ordered the contract on my wife?” she yelled.

“The fuck should I know?” spat the assassin. She fought to rise against the spasms the lightning still sent through her limbs.

“Maybe it’d help if I explained who I am,” said Gylhain. “ _Tiid,_ ” she Shouted, and time outside of her slowed to a crawl. She crossed the distance to Vialas in what seemed to the assassin to be no time at all.

Vialas tried to bring her dagger up, but Gylhain added “ _Zun_ ,” and the weapon went flying across the room. The Dragonborn—for Vialas knew it could be no other—reached down, picked up the assassin with one hand, and slammed her against the wall.

“Who ordered the contract on my wife?” she repeated.

“Fuck you.” Vialas scrambled to retrieve any of her hidden blades or other tricks.

“Wrong answer,” said the Dragonborn. She drove her sword into the assassin’s right shoulder, pinning her to the wall. Vialas felt the extreme cold sweep through her and her movements slow. The wound burned from the sheer freezing temperature of the blade. She tried to tear away and only made herself scream.

“I don’t know,” she managed to get out between ragged breaths. “Astrid kept records, but you burned the Sanctuary down.”

The Dragonborn’s face twisted with rage and she yanked the sword out of wall and shoulder. Vialas felt herself able to move quickly again and pulled a blade from her boot. She cut upwards and felt the metal sink into flesh, despite a strange resistance. Her contract wasn’t over yet.

Gylhain let loose with a left-handed punch. Vialas’ head rebounded off the wall. The assassin looked up to find a boot coming at her throat. She rolled left and tried to rise, but made the mistake of putting weight on her right arm. She collapsed again.

“One more question: who ordered the contract on Urag?”

Vialas spat blood and felt blessed heat behind her.

“Why should I tell you?” she asked.

“To bring more death to Skyrim,” came the answer.

Vialas grinned, never more pleased at having been read like a book.

“Farengar,” she said. “The fucking wizard at—”

“I know who he is,” said Gylhain. “Why?”

“Apparently Urag outbid him for some rare collection of books.” Vialas managed a laugh. “Killed over books.”

“I’ve seen worse for less,” said Gylhain, and drove her sword through the assassin’s chest. The woman gasped, her eyes going wide. When the sword was pulled out, the gasp faded. So died Vialas Maryon of the Dark Brotherhood.

Gylhain stepped back, expecting to feel a release, some closure as her quest for vengeance breathed its last. But she felt nothing, no emotion burned within her. Indeed that hollowness only seemed to grow, as though more of her had been removed. She hoped that the sight of Angi would restore such a hollow.

It was then that she really started to notice just quite how on fire the ship was. She made long strides across the room, leapt over the desk, crashed through the balcony door, and dropped over the rail. Calm water folded over the Dragonborn for the most blessed and silent of moments. Then, she rose back into the smoke-filled world.


	24. Parting of the Ways

“It’s over,” said Gylhain, hoping her voice was steadier than she felt.

The three comrades were reunited in Castle Dour and everyone was back in their own clothes. The Emperor had seen the sense of the plan straight away. Now he sat at another desk with his finger steepled.

“My most humble thanks to you, all of you,” said the Emperor. “Without you three I might now be lying at the bottom of the bay with my throat slit.” He gestured to the seats in front of him and they sat. Gylhain on the edge of her chair, armourless and uneasy. Dar’epha still fidgeted, picking at her fur. Only Vash appeared at ease.

“If there’s anything I can do for you,” said the Emperor. “Never let it be said that Titus Mede is not grateful.” He looked at each of them in turn. Vash cleared his throat with some awkwardness.

“If it’s not too much to ask. . .” he began, “I’ve been trying to rebuild Winterhold . . . as you may know. I have many people willing to help, but . . .”

“Not enough coin?” smiled the Emperor. “An eternal problem. Thankfully, one I can solve with ease. I’ll have a large chest sent up as soon as I can find a courier. Winterhold deserves to see good days again.”

Vash smiled widely and attempted a seated bow. “Thank you, milord,” he said. Thinking for a moment, he added, “Although you understand the College must remain neutral in all matters political.”

“I would not have it any other way,” agreed the Emperor. “Though I will attempt to keep any more Thalmor advisors out of your city,” he added with a knowing smile. He looked expectantly at the other two.

“You can’t give me anythin I want,” said Dar’epha. The Emperor went to speak, but the thief spoke on, regardless of propriety. “But I’ll give you some advice for nothin: root out the rat in your ranks. Someone on your council started all this—”

“Indeed,” interjected the Emperor firmly. “His name was Amaund Motierre, and his body was recently discovered in Whiterun. It seems this assassin had tired of dealing with him.”

“Motierre?” murmured Gylhain. “Powerful family.”

Dar’epha wondered for a moment, not for the first time, about her friend’s past before she’d appeared at Helgen. Then, she said, “Still, if them that’s in your inner circles are willin to send assassins after you, you might got yourself a problem.”

The Emperor nodded. “I will take that under advisement,” he said. He faced the Dragonborn.

“There’s nothing I want personally,” she said. “But you might consider funding the guards here. Chronically underequipped for what they have to deal with.”

“A worthy cause,” said the Emperor. “Skyrim deserves to have the best standing firm to protect it.” He looked pointedly at Gylhain, who shook her head.

“I’m retired,” she said.

Dar’epha chuckled, then regretted it. “That’s what you said last time,” she said, when the others looked at her. Gylhain was silent.

* * *

 

The three friends stood at the top of the stairs overlooking the docks. Guards, dock workers, and Penitus Oculatus flooded the planks, yelling contradictory orders and sending out boats to the wreckage of the Katariah.

“What now?” asked Dar’epha, to nobody in particular.

Vash straightened and brought himself back to reality. “I should head home,” he said. “We need to be ready for when the Emperor’s funds come through. Winterhold can start properly rebuilding itself.” He looked at his new friends, feeling safe calling them that now. “We could always use more hands if you’re at a loss.”

Dar’epha smiled, gently rubbing her scars with a paw. “Temptin, but the Guild falls apart if I’m out for more’n a few days.”

“What about you, Gylhain?” asked Vash.

“I have to find my wife,” she said. “Threat’s gone, we can start living again.” She sighed. “Have to build somewhere new, I suppose.”

“You know,” said Vash tentatively, “there’ll always be some threat or danger to you.”

Gylhain grunted. “This is Skyrim, after all,” she agreed. “But at least I got rid of the assassins. I found out something for you,” she added.

“What?” asked Vash, frowning.

“Farengar paid for the contract on Urag.”

Vash leaned away and ran through what he knew of Whiterun’s court mage. A man who had little time for those in his way, true, but enough for murder? He supposed anything was possible now.

“You want to deal with him, or shall I?” asked Gylhain.

Vash was silent for a moment, ruminating.

“I could steal all his shit if you’d like,” interjected Dar’epha.

“If I kill him . . .” wondered Vash, “doesn’t that make me as bad as the Dark Brotherhood?”

Gylhain snorted. “Arguing morality is pointless,” she said. “If you go by that, I’m the worst of the bunch. Killed enough people to fill half a dozen planes of Oblivion by now.”

“But they were bad people,” Vash said, expectantly.

“Some of them,” said Gylhain, shrugging.

Vash was silent again. “Let me think about it,” he said eventually.

None of them spoke for a while after that. A pair of sailors passed by, nodding in greeting as they headed down towards their ship. Dar’epha hopped up and backwards a tad, perching her behind on the railing.

“Maybe we’ll leave Skyrim,” said Gylhain in a low voice.

“And go where?” asked Dar’epha immediately.

“Angi’s talked about wanting to see Valenwood,” came the reply.

“Lots of the Dominion down there,” said Dar’epha. “In Elsweyr too.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Vash. “Why do you not talk as other Khajiit do?”

She coughed and steadied herself on the rail. “Not from there. Some Imperials raised me, down in Bruma. Skipped over here soon as I was old enough. Thought I was gonna be the best thief since the Grey Fox. I dunno, I was young.” A smile broke out across her face. “Glad I came, though.”

Gylhain stretched her arms together above her head and shouldered her pack, now heavy with weapons and armour—including the scimitar Dar’epha had pulled from the bowsprit.

“I got a woman to find,” she said, looking out towards the boats circling the wreckage of the Katariah. She turned to Vash and shook his hand. “It’s been a pleasure travelling with you, Archmage,” she said.

“Likewise, Dragonborn,” was Vash’s reply. “You should visit sometime, both of you. Winterhold’s going to see some big changes pretty soon.”

“Let us know where you decide to set up,” added Dar’epha.

Gylhain just nodded, but gave no direct confirmation. Dar’epha was struck with the sudden fear of never seeing her friend again.

“Stay quick, Eph.”

“You too, Gyl.”

With that, she was away, moving away down the path southwards. Just before she was out of sight, she turned back and waved, and Dar’epha felt a little better about their chances of reunion. She dropped off the rail and thumped Vash on the back.

“You takin the carriage back home?” she asked.

He replied in the affirmative.

“Come on, then,” she said, shouldering her own pack and heading up the hill. “I’ll ride with you as far as I can. Maybe the good people of Windhelm will’ve forgotten ’bout my little acts of crime since I was last there.”

Vash picked up his pack and moved after her. He wasn’t sure if Urag would have approved of the actions he’d taken over the last few days, or what he was going to do about Farengar, but for now it didn’t matter. The past was gone, just ashes in the wind, and he found that although eliminating the Dark Brotherhood hadn’t eased his grief, finding two new friends certainly had.


	25. Interlude: The Lives of Others

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have gone through Cyrodiil,” said Angi, retrieving another arrow from a bandit corpse.

Gylhain paused in wiping down her sword. “Oh come on,” she said, strain coming momentarily into her voice, “isn’t this far more exciting?” She gestured out at the sands of Hammerfell.

“At this rate it’ll take us weeks to reach Valenwood,” said Angi.

“You any in particular hurry?” asked Gylhain. Angi just shrugged.

Their guide appeared from over the next dune, blood staining his chest. The ice spike in his hand dissipated when he saw the remains of the bandits. His name was Jachael, and he was a thin Redguard mage with a knack for tracking. Some dark jagged tattoos spread across the left side of his face.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I think your conversations are composed entirely of bickering.” He looked back at the way they had come: north. “I have not seen Valenwood. I am sure that many trees cannot be good for a person.”

“Shall we continue?” asked Gylhain.

“By all means,” said Jachael. He paused in the act of pulling up his scarf and looked at them both. “Unless you would like to argue about it a little while longer.”

Gylhain looked a little abashed, but Angi grunted and shouldered her pack, eyes returning to the road and their southward journey.

* * *

 

It was a few months after the incident with Jonah at the Assemblage before Falin and Kureeth found themselves back in Windhelm. Ri’saad’s caravan routes seemed too meticulous to be entirely random, co-ordinated as they were with the other caravans he owned, but if there was a pattern to it all, Falin had not been able to discover it.

Tasked with stocking up on supplies, the couple bought food at the Cornerclub, but found Revyn Sadri to be low on potions—some excuse about the roads being in poor repair, although such setbacks had never halted their own caravan. Ri’saad had made a specific note on resist cold potions, and Sadri advised them to head over to The White Phial for the required items; he even gave them a letter of credit.

“We’re headed to Winterhold, Ri’saad said,” said Falin as they trudged through the snow in the falling light across Windhelm to the alchemist’s store. “It’s really expanding, trying to get back to what it was like before the Collapse. What was it Ri’saad said . . .?”

“There are customers waiting everywhere; one merely has to find them,” recited Kureeth. The most words he’d strung together in days. Falin noticed the smile playing around her husband’s mouth. She’d become masterful at reading his expressions over the years they’d spent together.

“I was thinking . . .” said Falin, “of enrolling in the College. My magic could certainly use some improvement, and it’s the best place in Skyrim to learn. And I’m sure there’d be plenty of work for you, with the expanding town.”

Kureeth stretched his shoulders and shifted the sack he carried on his shoulders, but said nothing.

“Not that I haven’t enjoyed our time with the caravan,” Falin went on. “I’m grateful to Ri’saad for the chance he took on us, and it’s been great seeing so much of Skyrim, but I don’t want to do this forever. It’s just . . . Winterhold seems like the sort of place I could live for a while.”

“Not yet,” grunted Kureeth. There was an approval contained in those two negative words that made Falin smile.

“Of course not!” she said. “We can take a look around when we’re up there, maybe talk to one of the mages, see if they’d take someone like me.” She frowned. “Maybe we should be saving money a little more sensibly than we are. How much would a house be? I don’t know.”

“Much,” said Kureeth.

“Probably,” agreed Falin, a little downheartedly. She pulled open the door to the White Phial, held it open for Kureeth, then followed him inside, closing it to block out the whistling Windhelm winds.

* * *

 

After the initial jolt of surprise, Kara felt a surprising amount of pleasure at seeing Falin and Kureeth again. Skyrim was always a smaller place than it at first seemed.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” said Falin, her mouth hanging open a little. “Sorry,” she added, “that’s no way to greet people.”

“It’s fine,” said Kara. “I’m just an apprentice. Quintus does all the real work.”

“You are still open then?” asked the wood elf. “We had some things we needed.”

“Of course,” said Kara, returning to the forced pleasing manner she used with customers. “What can I help you with?”

“Just what’s listed here,” said Falin, sliding a piece of paper across the counter.

Kara examined the list. “Shouldn’t be more than a moment,” she smiled, and retrieved the listed potions from the shelves below and behind the counter. The usual mix of health and stamina potions, with a selection of the less common: several solutions designed to prolong magicka use, and a large quantity of resist cold potions. She lined them up on the counter and watched as Kureeth began slowly and gently adding them to his sack.

Falin slid over another note, revealing itself upon examination to be a letter of credit.

Kara cleared her throat, smiled an excuse, and slipped through the doorway that led to the back room.

“What is it?” asked Quintus Navale, his alchemical work now in shadow from the big Nord woman’s presence.

“Is Sadri’s credit still good?” she asked.

He frowned. “Yes, but this is the last time. Next time I want to see actual coin, if he knows what coin even looks like.”

Kara returned to the counter. “This is all in order,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you,” said Falin.

Kara felt a sudden desire to prolong the conversation. She’d had only Antario to converse with for so long, despite how much she enjoyed his companionship. It had been too long since she’d heard what was going on outside Windhelm. Quintus, of course, was incapable of talking about anything other than his work.

“You heading someplace cold?” she asked.

“Up to Winterhold,” nodded Falin. “The caravan is always looking for new opportunities.” Kureeth smiled and Kara sensed a joke she couldn’t understand. Alright then.

“A good evening to you,” she said.

“And to you,” answered Falin. She once again held the door open and the pair exited. Kara realised that Kureeth hadn’t spoken a word the whole time he’d been in the shop.

She stood motionless for a moment, contemplating the evening and night that stretched ahead of her. Back to House Shatter-Shield, which she still had trouble thinking of as home.

Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was a man who had known incredible loss. He had once had a wife and two daughters, but all had departed the mortal plane. His first daughter, Friga, had been murdered during the days when the serial killer known as the Butcher terrorised Windhelm. When the Butcher was caught and killed by the Dragonborn in the days following the end of the Civil War, the Shatter-Shields thought they would be allowed to grieve in peace. But fate had other cruel plans. The second daughter, Nilsine, was murdered by the Dark Brotherhood for reasons unknown. Finding the light gone from her life, Torbjorn’s wife Tova had committed suicide, leaving him alone in the world.

Unable to stand being alone in an empty house, Torbjorn had eventually opened his home to lodgers. Kara filled one bed and Antario another, with Torbjorn still residing there and acting as landlord.

Quintus popped in to dissolve Kara’s ruminations. “You can leave now if you want,” he said. “I’ll close up.”

She thanked him absent-mindedly and exited into the cold streets of her city. She still thought of it as such, despite the long absence of Stormcloaks wandering its narrow streets. Now she had a new life, with new skills. Following the path past the gravestones and up the stairs, she unlocked the door to House Shatter-Shield. The main room was empty and she ascended to the second floor and her room; quite a large one, given the low rate. She supposed Torbjorn needed the company more than the gold.

Removing her outer furs, she smoothed her pale blonde hair back and straightened the sleeves of her shirt. She refused to wear skirts, something of her warrior past that had remained. Her broadsword remained too, hanging on the wall over her bed. Although these days she found herself barely sparing it a glance—regarding the incident in the Assemblage as an outlier, an aberration—the days of killing and adventure long past.

She dined with Antario, Torbjorn away on business. She remembered the guards carrying away Jonah’s body and swallowed heavily before asking a question.

“D’you think the Thalmor’ll ever give up sending people after you?”

Antario stirred distractedly at his meal. “I think not,” he said eventually. “They are not the kind to merely let things rest as they are.”

“And you ain’t left here,” Kara said.

Antario shrugged. “It is unlikely Jonah managed to communicate my location to his superiors before he died; I believe I am safe enough here for the moment. Besides,” he added, meeting her eyes, “strange as it may have seemed in the beginning, I have come to enjoy my place here.”

* * *

 

Gylhain gazed up at the statue, her brows furrowed.

“Figured they’d be taller, or something,” she said.

Angi snorted, already looking around at the rest of Kvatch with a lack of interest evident in her face. “That’s what everybody says about you,” she said.

“Can’t tell if they’re male or female either.”

Angi came fully back to the conversation. “Race, too.” She pointed up. “See that hood? Could be mer ears under there.”

Gylhain tried to crack a grin. “Suppose the Empire wouldn’t be too happy ’bout a mer saving them from the Oblivion Crisis.”

“I met an orc once,” told Angi, “who claimed the Champion of Cyrodiil was one of their people.”

Gylhain shrugged. “It’s a good a theory as any,” she said. “Sorry for dragging us over this far east,” she added. “I know it’s a bit out of our way.”

“It’s fine,” said Angi. “One hero’s interested in another. Makes perfect sense.”

They smiled at each other for the first time in days, then headed for the inn. There were still a few days to go before they could reach Valenwood and see the trees that would seem to stretch up to scrape the sky.


	26. Swirls of Thought and Snow

“Are there salvageable materials at the base of the cliff?” asked Jean.

Vash frowned at the question. He’d peered down off the bridge to the College often enough, but the crashing waves and layers of ice made it difficult to tell.

“I don’t know,” he said.

The small freckled Breton woman pursed her lips and wrapped her furs tighter around her. Her nose had a permanent pink end to it, ever since her arrival in Winterhold. For the Emperor had done more than send a chest of gold, he’d sent a master builder, Jean Lerhart. A discipline that the town, let alone Skyrim, was sorely lacking in.

Already the benefits were showing. A stable had been first, next to the Frozen Hearth on the edge of town, with a resident carriage driver too, saving College members and Winterhold residents the long dangerous slog through the snow to Windhelm. There was a proper guard barracks, constructed as an extension to the Jarl’s Longhouse. Although the guard still only numbered in single digits, they now had a brand new set of basement cells, saving them the freezing row out to the Chill. The guards were almost disappointed that there hadn’t been anyone yet to lock up.

“If there are materials down there,” continued Jean, “then salvaging them could save you a significant amount.”

Vash nodded. The Emperor’s note accompanying the gold had made it clear: a one-time payment. When it ran out, Winterhold would have to pay its own way.

“I’ll take a group down there for a look,” he said. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to mention,” he added.

Jean looked about ready to drop, so Vash made it quick.

“I’ve been thinking about some sort of . . . windbreak, up at Whistling Mine. Every time a guard gets posted up there they come back almost with their fingers falling off.”

“And Vellius won’t let them come inside the mine,” said Jean.

Vash pulled a face. “I’m not sure it’s much warmer in there anyway.”

Astene Vellius, the owner of Whistling Mine for two years now, had guided the operation to a new level of prosperity. When she’d arrived it had been all but abandoned. Now with new management and workers, there was a steady stream of iron ore coming up, and the occasional piece of quicksilver too.

“It’s not warm anywhere in Winterhold,” said Jean. The woman was an Imperial City native, and had yet to become used to the cold, despite having arrived almost a year prior. Constantly under layers of fur even indoors, the woman’s small frame was almost impossible to gauge with the constant bulkiness of her clothes.

“Should be reasonably simple,” she went on. “A small hut or the like.” Vash knew that this sort of work was much different to what she would have been used to back in Cyrodiil, but she had never complained. He wondered if she had done something grievous to get such a posting. “And I’ll draw up a few ideas for the forge,” she added.

They said their farewells, and Jean moved away through the inn to her room. Vash made a point of coming to her for their planning sessions, rather than the other way around, saving her the hike up the bridge with its driving wind. Nobody had fallen from it yet under his tenure as Archmage, and he wasn’t about to let anybody start now. He’d improved the stonework along it, but many of the original enchantments were beyond even Sergius’ abilities.

Vash pulled on his gloves and exited the Frozen Hearth into the night. He nodded as he passed the guard on patrol but stopped at the first empty plot after the inn. The rubble and detritus had been cleared, leaving an empty space where a house could be raised. Vash and Jean’s current idea was for a forge, though they had no smith to operate it. He was still theorising about this, in the cold, when he caught a shaft of firelight back the way he’d come.

The inn door opened and a figure staggered into the snow without enough layers. It promptly tripped on the stairs and fell face-first into the snow. Not one of the miners on a binge, Vash saw as he drew closer, but Ranmir again, still on his eternal cycle of drunk to hungover and back again.

He felt his lip curling into a snarl and tried to supress it. He was the Archmage, it was not his place to pass judgement on the populace. The guard was still walking in the other direction. Vash strode towards the drunk, muttering under his breath. He hefted Ranmir up and brought an arm around his shoulder, Vash’s hefty frame having no trouble lifting the drunk. He thanked, not for the first time, his fastidiousness in working his body as well as his mind.

“You trying to freeze to death out here, Ranmir?” he asked. “Let’s get you home.”

“Archmage?” said Ranmir, slurring the first syllable. “You’re a good sort, for a . . .”

He thankfully slid into intelligibility as they made their way across Winterhold’s only street. Struggling to hold his tongue, Vash readjusted his grip on the drunk as he knocked on the door. It opened after only a brief delay to reveal Ranmir’s sister, Birna, a Nord woman with dirty blonde hair and a perpetually tired face. She reacted with no surprise at the tableau before her.

“Thanks, Archmage,” she sighed, reaching forward to brush the snow out of her brother’s hair. “I can take him from here.”

Vash nodded, heaved Ranmir over, and bid them both a goodnight.

He understood now why Gylhain had retired into attempted obscurity. It was the burden that came with skill and authority. You could do everything someone asked of you: save the world, rebuild their homes, revive their fortunes, and still they would ask for more, still they would look down on you. Vanishing into the wilds was something Vash thought about occasionally, but there was solace in his College and colleagues, and especially in his books.

Crossing the bridge, he wished for more students. None had arrived since J’zargo and Onmund several years prior. Now Onmund held the position of librarian, and J’zargo had advanced far enough that he could hardly be called a student any longer; the same went for Brelyna, who had arrived around the same time Vash himself had.

Now all were free to pursue their own areas of interest. For Brelyna, that meant shapeshifting, an area none of the senior mages could offer assistance in. She was forging new ground, and Vash was thrilled. He’d already been her willing test subject a couple of times, and none of the side effects had lasted more than a few hours.

For J’zargo, freedom meant fire. He had been persuaded at length to confine it to the Hall of the Elements, where large scorches marked the floor, walls, and even ceiling. Admittedly, he too was breaking new ground, refining and improving flame cloak and fireball spells with barely contained delight at the destruction.

Vash’s raised arm triggered the gate and he longed for nothing more than the silence and warmth of his chambers. However, in the courtyard under the statue, he was met by Tolfdir, Master Wizard. The bearded and aged man looked weary; Vash often thought that his office was more than he had the energy for. Still, he persevered admirably.

“Archmage,” he breathed. “There is a matter that demands your attention.”

Vash couldn’t keep himself from sighing. Of course there was. And when he’d dealt with this one there’d be another and another. A neverending cycle of other people’s problems.

“Yes, Tolfdir, what is it?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“The Jarl of Eastmarch has reported aftershocks from the Eye of Magnus within his borders. He asks for you personally.” Tolfdir fumbled in his pockets and pouches, eventually withdrawing a folded piece of paper.

Vash took it solemnly. He’d dealt with aftershocks from that incident before. But it was damned annoying, that even four years later, these same warps in reality were still appearing, spitting out their dangerous green wisps.

“Thank you, Tolfdir,” he said. “I’ll head down there in the morning.”

“Of course, Archmage,” nodded Tolfdir. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

* * *

 

In his spacious quarters, Vash examined the letter in detail. Windhelm’s Jarl was Brunwulf Free-Winter, a good man who had improved the lot of the Dunmer, Argonian, and Khajiit in Windhelm, lifting them far above the level where Ulfric had relegated them during the war.

The note revealed the rift had occurred in a most inconvenient location: on the road between Windhelm and Whiterun, alongside the White River. The Jarl, to his credit, had posted guards at a safe distance on either side, directing travellers to alternate routes.

Dissatisfied, Vash summoned a small ball of light and rolled it across the back of his knuckles. Then he let it spin gently around his fist, spiralling wider and wider until it spun loose to navigate the twisted branches of the tree that grew in the centre of his garden.

Again he considered how long it had been since he’d had word from Gylhain, since she’d departed Skyrim with her wife for Valenwood. But he was sure that no matter what the Dragonborn could run up against, she could handle it. He had never seen anyone move with such battle-hardened precision and confidence.

It had been a while since Vash had been in a combat situation himself, not since that excursion to Eldergleam Sanctuary. Shaking his shoulders, he attempted some practice. In the span of a second, an ethereal steel blade appeared in his right hand. He’d always had a preference for bound weapons, as they were known, appreciating their ability to get him in closer than the average mage.

Delving deep into his magicka reserves, he cast a protective spell that gave his flesh the hardness of ebony. Grunting with satisfaction as he felt the additional weight behind his movements, he strode to the wall and slammed his left fist into it, leaving a sizeable crack and loosing dust onto the floor. He felt no pain in his hand.

With this combination, he could be deadlier on the field of battle than any warrior, able to alter his fighting style in an incredibly short span to suit whatever situation arose. He sighed and dismissed both spells. This battle competence was of no use if he was cramped inside all day. He loved his College, but there were limits to what could be learnt within its walls.

* * *

 

Still restless after his evening meal, Vash took a walk on the battlements, stepping carefully so as not to slip on the stones. He wrapped his arms around himself and sympathised for a moment with Jean; although one could get used to Winterhold’s climate to a certain extent, it still had the ability to chill even natives to the very core.

Maybe, he wondered, overlooking the town, there was a way to raise the land again, restore the fallen cliffs that had crumbled in the Collapse. Perhaps the senior mages might have some ideas. His mind ran over the sheer amount of magicka that would be needed for such an endeavour. While considering workarounds, he noticed something.

The light of a single torch could be seen, a way south of the town, too far out to be the guard on patrol. It bobbed and flickered and threatened to go out. But slowly it made ground, and the figure carrying it came into view, slogging through the snows. An unmistakable figure, and as it drew closer a grin spread across Vash’s face. For it was the figure of the Dragonborn.


	27. No Escape for Traitors

Kara stared up at the blackness where she knew the ceiling was. The hour was late and her day had been full, but she was unable to sleep. Her ears strained for a sound, any sound. Over and again her conversations with Antario came back to the unlikelihood of the Thalmor giving up on him. Too many of them around these days.

Maybe it will be tonight, she thought, as she thought every night. She was worrying too much, she knew. It hadn’t happened on any night before this, what were the chances of it happening now? Still just as low.

Or just as high. Her drooping eyelids snapped up. A faint sound from downstairs. Maybe she’d imagined it. Maybe there were skeevers gnawing around the foundations again. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe not.

Sliding silently out of bed, she slipped a faded wool robe over her long nightshirt to protect against Windhelm’s chill. Willing her bed not to creak, she placed one foot upon it and reached up to retrieve her sword that hung above. Luck was on her side; her bed did not let out a sound and, hefting the all-too-familiar grip of her steel broadsword in both hands, she stepped towards the door.

She lifted the latch with painful slowness and heard another noise, this time unmistakable. Someone had just opened the front door. Neither Antario nor their landlord Torbjorn would be leaving the house at such an hour. As far as she knew, they were both asleep in their beds. She edged her door open just wide enough and peeked through the slit, seeing nothing. She edged it wider and slipped fluidly through into the main area of the upstairs.

At the top of the stairs she paused and lowered into a crouch to peer downstairs. Easing the front door shut behind them, lit by a dying candle, were three Altmer, dressed in such a way that there could be no mistaking their allegiance: Thalmor. One was dressed in fine hooded black robes and carried no visible weapon; Kara marked him as a mage. The other two were in full elven armour, with swords and shields of the same make.

The mage pointed to one of the others, then pointed upstairs. Nodding his understanding, the warrior moved towards the stairs, the other two creeping slowly in the direction of Antario’s downstairs room. In a few short moments they would be in, catching her friend in his sleep, defenceless. Kara decided the time for sneaking was over.

“ _ANTARIO!”_ she bellowed. “ _They’re here!”_

The Thalmor mage spun at the sudden sound, saw her and cursed. “Shut her up!” he spat, as he and the warrior beside him vanished into Antario’s room. The warrior heading upstairs doubled their pace, reached the landing and locked eyes with Kara.

In that instant, a flash of memory came back to her: her fight with the Dragonborn. She’d criticised Kara’s approach, said she came in too fast, fought too recklessly. It was how she’d been bested with such little effort. In the time since, looking over her fighting history with the critical eye of hindsight, she had come to agree with Gylhain. But there was a time and a place for a careful approach, and this was neither. Completely disregarding the advice of the greatest warrior Skyrim had ever seen, Kara leapt from the top of the stairs with her sword above her head, a primal roar escaping her lips.

Her feet hit the landing as her blade slammed at her enemy, carving a huge dent in his shield. As he was pushed back against the wall, Kara made a savage blow at his neck before he could recover. His head didn’t come quite off, but his body slumped in a heap, half-down the stairs.

Down in the main room, she was barely halfway to Antario when there was a flash of light and the second warrior flew from the doorway. His back collided with the long table, produced a loud crash and knocked over goblets and candlestands. The warrior moved to get up, but Kara took a few quick steps, reversed her grip on her sword, and drove it into the elf’s chest.

Before she got a chance to move further, Antario came into view. He wore only a pair of loose trousers, his bare torso was splattered with blood, and his Akaviri sword was clenched in his right fist. The air around him crackled with magical energy. There was a furious expression on his face, like nothing Kara had seen on him before.

Seeing the two bodies, his stance relaxed. His aura diminished as he looked Kara in the eye, unabashed by his lack of clothes.

“You are not injured?” he asked. Kara shook her head, her cheeks red and breaths harsh from the exertion. She’d strived to keep fit while working at the alchemist’s but it had been quite some time since she’d had such a fight. She was slightly out of shape, she realised dejectedly. Antario, on the other hand, seemed perfectly inclined in the opposite direction.

It was then that Torbjorn descended the stairs, a short steel sword in his hand, and his face white as his gaze wandered over the bodies. Kara knew without asking that images of his lost family were coming back to him at the sight of such violent deaths. It seemed that death had followed Torbjorn once again, despite his wishes to escape it.

“What in Shor’s name is going on?” he asked, his voice hollow.

Antario did a half-bow, and rested his bloody sword on the table as he rose. “My most humble apologies, Master Shatter-Shield,” he said, tucking his lengthening deep blond hair behind his elven ears. “You have been a host beyond reproach and I have repaid your kindnesses and tolerances by bringing death and chaos into your home. I wish that events could have transpired differently, but it seems I have left it too late.”

“What . . . the Thalmor?” asked Torbjorn. “And you, Kara, you knew of this? I had no idea you were so competent with that sword.”

Kara hung her head, the point of the sword in question coming to rest on the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said, wishing for words as fine as Antario’s. “You didn’t ask for this.”

“Indeed you did not,” continued Antario. “But you can rest assured that such an incident will not befall you in the future. I will depart these premises as soon as possible, and the quarrel my former employers have with me will follow, rather than linger here. I will, of course, provide adequate compensation for the disturbances, enough to cover the removal of these bodies as well as several months’ worth of rent.”

Torbjorn’s face softened a little and the point of his sword lowered. He looked at the bodies with more comprehension. “High elves,” he murmured. “Why does your own kind hunt you?”

A regretful look passed over Antario’s face. “Old grudges run deep,” he said. “As to why I have now risen again upon their list of priorities, I do not know. You would be advised, Master Shatter-Shield, to screen any new lodgers thoroughly. The Dominion’s net is wide.”

“There . . . there are more?” asked Torbjorn. “This is beyond me.” He walked forward to slump at one of the still-upright benches. He looked up after a silence and he seemed to Kara a man sick of the drudgery of living.

“There will be no more tonight,” said Antario. “They have a compulsion about travelling in threes. Whether there will be more, I cannot say. They have no reason to target you, but I believe it is best to take all precautions.”

Torbjorn nodded distantly. “I’ll have to inform the Jarl,” he said.

Antario gave a small smile, as if he had foreseen such a turn of events. “There is no action I could take to prevent you from doing so,” he said. “But I would request waiting until after I have departed Windhelm.”

“He’s probably asleep now anyway,” added Kara. Straight away she regretted even opening her mouth. Her words seemed so clumsy and crude compared to Antario’s flowery way of speaking.

“Indeed,” said Antario. “Kara, you have my deepest thanks once again for your assistance in my protection. Twice now my life would have been forfeit if it were not for you.”

“I’m coming with you,” she said, all of sudden. She was amazed that the words came out clear rather than in keeping with the jumble in her head.

Antario tilted his head. “Your assistance would be appreciated,” he said. Then he smiled and added, “As would your company. But you have constructed a life here, I cannot ask you to abandon it for the sake of my past allegiances.”

Kara shrugged, tried to act like nothing was bothering her. “I made this one, I can make another one if I want.”

“In that case,” said Antario, smiling still, “I would recommend leaving immediately. Time may be slipping away from us more than we know.”

Kara nodded, held her tongue, and rushed up to her room, taking the stairs three at a time. She darted about, tossed her sword on the bed, and gathered her few possessions into her pack: an amulet of Talos, a couple of potions, some bread and cheese she had been saving, and a small pouch of gold. She hurriedly dressed in thick furs and wished for proper armour.

Before exiting the room, she took one last look around. It had been a home to her for what seemed like an age now, but she realised that if she were not to return, there was nothing about it that she would miss. Clearing her throat for no reason, she left the room that was no longer hers.

Back downstairs she found the bodies stacked neatly in a disturbing pile next to the front door. Large smeared bloodstains showed where the bodies had been dragged: down the stairs, out of Antario’s room. He was pacing in front of the door, dressed in his fine hooded robes of blue and green, a pack smaller than Kara’s slung over his left shoulder. He stopped upon catching sight of her.

“Excellent!” he said. “Let us leave forthwith, then.”

“Where’s Torbjorn?” she asked.

“He has taken it upon himself to inform the Jarl immediately,” he replied. “When I repeated your comment that Brunwulf Free-Winter assuredly keeps the same hours as others not of his station, Master Shatter-Shield—rather stubbornly, I might add—promised to raise the steward from his bed. So, we must leave immediately.”

Kara nodded assent and the two stepped out into the dark night and whistling winds of Windhelm.

* * *

 

There was no trouble from the guards on duty at the gate, which meant that Torbjorn’s message had not yet been spread. Kara had no doubt their exit, so late, would be reported anyway. They did not speak until they were across the bridge and making tracks to the west.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Whiterun,” came the answer. “I believe there is some catastrophe about to be unleashed upon the province of Skyrim.”

“In Whiterun?”

“I do not know. But it was in Whiterun where I first discovered a trail that led me to the Dragonborn. I believe I can do so again.”


	28. The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors

“Why couldn’t we have just stopped in Riverwood? It’s got to be after midnight.”

Falin’s voice was tense and her hands were restless. The caravan, led by its single stubborn horse, was ambling its way on the road between Riverwood and Whiterun, its cover down, its occupants open to the night. None of them were able to sleep. A lantern rested in the back of the wagon, another next to the driver.

“This one thought it best,” said Ri’saad, his paws clenched around the reins, “to put as much distance between ourselves and Falkreath after that catastrophe of a deal.”

This was a reasonable desire. The caravan had stopped in the wooden town in Skyrim’s south, but one of the locals—an obnoxious Nord by the name of Bolund—had accused them of being spies for the Dominion. As a caravan composed of three Khajiits, an Argonian, and a Bosmer, amongst a town full of angry Nords, they had decided to take their leave.

Kureeth, Falin’s husband, reached back from his place beside Ri’saad to rest a scaled hand gently on her shoulder. He peered out into the blackness, suspicious of every noise and movement.

“Gauntlets,” he said suddenly. The first word he’d spoken all night. Khayla, the Khajiit warrior, passed the iron gauntlets forward to him, checking after to make sure her sword was clear in its scabbard. Giving into temptation, she drew the weapon and rested it on her knees. Kureeth slipped on the battered fists he used in combat, which he combined with his iron boots to form his preferred fighting style: unarmed. But the rest of his body was covered only in fur and so he had to keep moving in a fight, attempting to never let a blow land on his body.

Falin thought she heard a distant howl.

Ri’saad tried to adopt a reassuring tone, not unlike the one he used to convince unsure customers. “No need to worry,” he said. “These ones shall all soon be safely in Whiterun, nothing to worry about.” But he did not sound like he was convincing even himself.

Atahbah, the third Khajiit and experienced merchant, wrung her hands. “What is this feeling?” she asked. “Can anyone see anything?”

Nobody spoke. Kureeth narrowed his eyes and moved his shoulders around in their sockets. He repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists, scanned the dark surrounds, looking for anything that could signal trouble. To their right flowed the White River, and as they drew alongside the first waterfall, there was a roar like nothing any of them had heard before.

It was almost human-sounding, but with a twisted nature to it that sent shivers down all their spines. The horse ground to a halt and refused to go any further, shaking and wheezing where it stood. Kureeth saw that its stout body was thick with sweat. Ri’saad flailed violently with the reins, but the animal was unmoving. Frozen with fear, Kureeth thought.

He turned again in his seat and addressed Khayla. “Can you see anything?” he asked, deferring to her advanced night vision. Atahbah sat with her head in her hands, praying softly to Azura. Falin removed her hood, revealing her small pointed ears and soft blonde hair, cut messily short.

Khayla’s eyes narrowed, looking across the river, scanning the banks for any sign of movement.

“No, there’s nothing,” she said. “Wait! What . . . what in Azurah’s name?”

Atahbah’s prayers become louder and more feverish. “Lady Azurah, shield us from the terrors of the night, see us safely through to dawn. Lady Azurah . . .”

She never got to finish her prayer, as she made the mistake of looking up. And saw the shapes moving towards them. Kureeth opened the lantern door and stuck the end of a torch in the opening. With new light in his left hand, he leapt from his seat to the road, finally able to make out what was approaching them.

With another unearthly roar, a dremora ran into the circle of light, his spiked armour shining in the sudden brightness, sweeping his two-handed daedric sword over his head. On either side of the demon loped several hounds, with fur blacker than the night outside the circle, and deep blood-red eyes.

Kureeth didn’t hesitate, no matter how much every instinct within screamed at him to run. He would stand firm. He would guard the caravan. “Protection!” he yelled, going into a low fighting stance.

Falin snapped her mouth shut from its shocked gaping and cast an Ironflesh spell, altering her husband’s skin to a harder state more resistant to attacks.

One of the hounds reached Kureeth first. It leapt at him, but he kicked it in the face, knocking it to the ground. The same boot came down with great force, crushing the beast’s skull. Looking up, he saw the dremora was upon him. He swayed to the left, the demon’s overhead swipe going wide. To the side he saw Khayla leaping from the wagon, her sword keeping two other hounds at bay.

The dremora swung again, a sideways slash that would have cleaved deep into Kureeth if he hadn’t ducked. He plunged the end of the torch into the dremora’s face as he rose, following it up with a heavy right jab. Kureeth had once managed to stagger a troll with a single punch, but he knew that demons born from Oblivion were another matter entirely.

He edged back, wary that his furs and skin, even with Falin’s spell, could not withstand a direct hit from the dremora’s sword. Daring a glance to the side, he saw Falin helping Khayla, paralysing one hound with a spell, allowing the Khajiit to plunge her sword through its head—only to have the other leap at her, latching onto her arm.

Knowing that the dremora would have swung again, Kureeth dive-rolled to his left, but was too long. He felt the daedric blade bite deep into his right side, cutting through both armour and spell. He fell to the dirt, dropping the torch, its light flickering. When he looked up he saw the dremora reverse its grip on its sword, looking to plunge it through his chest.

He rolled to the side, gritting his teeth at the pain. The dremora’s sword bit into earth instead of his flesh. Taking his slim moment of opportunity, Kureeth came to his feet and delivered a vicious and pain-fuelled left hook. To the surprise of everyone involved, it floored the demon. He wrenched the sword from the ground and slammed the point into the foul creature’s throat. It let out a final roar that echoed around the caravan even as it dissipated into ash, leaving Kureeth holding the sword.

His boots scattering the remains of his vanquished foe, he turned to find Khayla offing the final hound. It slumped, dissipating just as the dremora had. Kureeth lowered the daedric sword, its point touching the earth.

“That would seem to be all of them,” said Ri’saad. “We are more competent that we thought, this one thinks. Are there injuries?”

In response, Kureeth staggered, and felt the depth of his wound in a series of painful jabs. They quickened, growing faster and faster, driving him to his knees. They blurred into one, an everlasting and overreaching canopy of pain that blotted out all else. The sword slipped from his grip, and he went to collapse, but was stopped by several steady hands.

Looking up through blurred vision, he saw Falin and Khayla grasping him, hauling him up into the back of the wagon. Ri’saad hopped down and scooped up the daedric sword. Kureeth felt no further pain as he slumped down in the wagon. He saw Falin’s hands move in rapid motions, a calm glowing light forming between them.

As the caravan began to move, he felt the spell’s warmth encase him, and he slipped into dreamless sleep.


	29. A Midnight Visitor

Vash pulled open the main doors of the College as Gylhain was rounding the statue in the courtyard. Seeing her friend, she doused her torch in the snow, leaving the handle sticking upwards in the drift. Taking off her helmet, she stepped inside and stamped the snow from her boots. She was dressed in the same ebony armour that she’d left in, but it now showed signs of her great journey. The once-bright cuirass was scuffed and scratched, and the boots bore dark stains of a deep green-brown colour that came up well above the knees.

The two shook hands, Dragonborn and Archmage. Vash was unable to keep from smiling.

“Welcome back,” he said, which immediately felt inadequate. He pointed upstairs and Gylhain nodded, the two beginning the climb to Vash’s chambers.

“How long has it been?” asked the returning traveller, her voice weary. She took the stairs slowly, and each lifted leg seemed to carry more weight than just her armour.

Vash shrugged nonchalantly, pretended he didn’t know the exact amount. “More than a year, I think.”

“Damn,” sighed Gylhain. “Never go to Black Marsh,” she added after a moment.

“I take it that’s why your boots are in the state they are?” asked Vash.

As they entered the Archmage’s quarters, Gylhain looked down at herself, seemingly for the first time in a long while. “Yeah. Can’t really recommend the place, as a whole.”

The two sat opposite each other at the small round table where Vash frequently took his meals; currently a mess of scrolls, books, and scribbled notes. Gylhain leaned her glass shield against the wall and unbuckled her sword: the curved scimitar Dar’epha had retrieved from the bowsprit of the Katariah.

Gylhain eyed the chaos of the room. “You’ve been busy, then,” she said. “Noticed some changes in the town on my way up.”

Vash felt pride seep into him again. “The Emperor’s funds have almost run out,” was what he managed to restrain himself to. He reached his hand back to scratch his scalp. He was concerned by his friend’s appearance: her dark brown hair had grown, bound into a loose ponytail that looked as if it had been that way for some time. But what was more concerning was the absence. He coughed.

“Did Angi stay in Riften?” he asked.

Gylhain’s expression dropped into a frown and she stared at her hands. “We parted ways in Valenwood,” she said.

In all his imaginings as to how this reunion would go, Vash had never predicted this. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

Gylhain shrugged, but Vash could see how much effort it took for her to force it.

“My kind of life is better lived alone,” she said.

Vash leaned across the table, unsure of how to proceed. “Where exactly did you go?” he asked, attempting to steer into more certain waters.

Gylhain leaned back and cast her gaze up towards the high ceiling of the chamber, preparing herself. “South into Hammerfell,” she began, “across the desert. Can’t recommend that, either.” She paused for a moment. “I was stupid to think things would be different elsewhere. It’s just the same: people struggling against the inevitable, people unable to get along, people asking you to solve all their problems. There’s gotta be somewhere I can get some peace and quiet.”

“Is that what you really want?” asked Vash, trying to keep a tone of disbelief out of his voice.

“I don’t know,” said Gylhain. She went on. “Anyway, we got through the desert without dying, took a detour through Kvatch, then headed into Valenwood. Things . . . went south pretty quickly.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Gylhain shook her head and continued. “I headed into Elsweyr. Wild as you can imagine, and plenty of Thalmor around.”

“Plenty in Skyrim too, these days,” said Vash. Gylhain frowned at him, but Vash shook his head. “I’ll tell it when you’re done.”

“Fine. I spent most of my time in Elsweyr trying not to be identified. I was hoping to speak to the Mane, but there was no such luck. There’s as much dissent among the Dominion as there is in the Empire, so that’s . . . something. I got tired of running and headed east. Stopped in Leyawiin for a while. Got drunk a lot. I tried to send you a letter from there.”

Vash shook his head. “Nothing came through,” he said.

Gylhain grunted. “Couriers must not be as invincible as ours. Everyone I met told me not to go into Black Marsh.”

“But you ignored then,” said Vash, smiling again.

“Course I did. The first city I saw—one of the few that really fit our definition of the word—was Gideon. There were remnants of Imperial buildings there, ruins as old as anything you get up here. You would’ve loved it.”

To travel as unimpeded as Gylhain . . . there was a dream for Vash. But he had responsibilities that he had chosen, and he would not shirk from them. At least not until there was another suitable candidate for Archmage.

“From there, it got considerably worse,” Gylhain went on. “It’s a damned miracle the place was ever a part of the Empire. The roads are barely there, the language is impossible to speak if you’re not Argonian, even the trees are hostile. By the time I got to a place called Helstrom, I gave up on seeking out any coherent authority. The place seems to govern itself, and the Hist wouldn’t talk to the likes of me. I headed north—lost Chillrend somewhere in a swamp. Fighting things the locals call Naga; black scaled monsters with fangs that hunt in packs.”

She shook her head, as if such an action would banish the memory, erase it from her mind. Her gaze came down from the ceiling to meet Vash’s for the first time since her tale had entered Black Marsh.

“You know I didn’t see a single human or mer the whole time I was in that damned place? I can understand why now.”

Vash nodded. “I imagine the memory of Knahaten Flu still lingers,” he said, trying to take in all this new information in as much of an orderly mental fashion as he could.

“Yeah,” said Gylhain, not ignorant of her Tamrielic history, it seemed. “I didn’t see any evidence of it hanging around, though. Like I said, I headed north, to Stormhold, into Morrowind. The Argonians were more organised there, but they were only concerned with inflicting revenge on the Dunmer. Fools on every side.”

She slumped lower in her chair. “Then I headed back to Skyrim. Saw Dar’epha in Riften, then came here. Now what were you saying about Thalmor?”

Vash cleared his throat. “They’ve been poking around for months now,” he said. “Disturbing old burial grounds, setting up camps in ruins, that sort of thing. Nobody knows what they’re up to, but people are getting restless. There’s been several racially-provoked attacks; should be anti-Thalmor sentiment, but all the mer are feeling the violence.”

“Any deaths?” asked Gylhain. She ran her still-gauntleted hand across her forehead.

“No,” replied Vash. “But I believe it’s only a matter of time before there are.”

“Fuck!” exclaimed the Dragonborn. “This damned province, Empire, whole fucking landmass! A bunch of idiots writhing around in their own seeping hatred, so caught up in past ignorance they can’t see a thing. We’re all the same, Vash, you know that better than most.”

Vash tried not to recoil from her outburst. “Winterhold has remained mostly immune,” he said. "We have that to be thankful for.”

“Thanks to you and your College, I reckon,” said Gylhain.

Vash was unwilling to take all the credit. “I think the Dunmer history of the College has a lot to do with it.”

Gylhain stretched her arms above her and yawned. “You’re still the best Archmage this place has probably ever seen,” she said.

“There are spare beds over in the Hall of Countenance,” said Vash, “if you need to sleep.”

“Aye, let’s call it a night,” said Gylhain. “Don’t think I’ve slept since Balmora.”

“Come on,” said Vash, rising. “I’ll take you over across the roof.”

* * *

 

Exiting onto the stone roof of the College, they discovered the snow had ceased falling. The night sky was left completely clear, Masser and Secunda lighting their way. They stopped and walked to the edge. Above them and to the north, the auroras could be seen, but Gylhain looked to the east. It was a vista unlike any other in Skyrim.

Vash crossed his arms against the cold. “It’s hard to get any work done knowing this view is right here,” he said.

They walked further around the roof and took the top door into the Hall of Countenance. Descending the stairs, Vash gestured to a darkened room, lit only by the light that travelled up from the central well.

“In here,” he murmured. “Some of the others might be up early, though.”

The Dragonborn yawned again, wider and longer this time. “Any rest is good rest,” she said. She shuffled into the room, her tiredness obvious in every sluggish movement. “Goodnight, Vash,” her voice called out after her retreating body.

“Goodnight,” echoed Vash. He turned to get back to his quarters, his smile tinged with sadness. He wondered, not for the first time, whether there would ever be a true home for his friend within Tamriel.


	30. A Search and a Warning

After a hurried trip by moonlight, Kara and Antario checked into the upstairs room of the Bannered Mare. Assuring her Altmer friend that he needed his sleep, Kara left him in the room, but made him pull the end table in front of the door to delay unwanted visitors.

Carrying her bulky sword around the still-waking town would draw attention, but there was no way Kara was going to do without it. She tied up her blonde hair as she descended the stairs and accosted the barmaid as nicely as possible. A yawning Redguard, just finishing up her shift as dawn stretched over the city.

“The Dragonborn? Sure, she has a house here,” the barmaid explained conversationally. “She used to be a regular, but nobody’s seen her in months, or longer. She does have a habit of vanishing for long stretches, though.”

The woman could tell Kara was disheartened. “You might try Belethor, over at his general goods store. Seedy disreputable little man, but he knows what’s going on. Used to do business with Gylhain fairly often too.”

Kara took a moment to readjust her perceptions. Despite the time she’d shared a meal with the Dragonborn, it was still hard to think of her as just a person, living in an ordinary town, dealing with ordinary problems. The legends and songs made her out to be almost a god, an unkillable warrior who could fix anything. “You know her well, then?” Kara asked.

“This is Whiterun,” smiled the barmaid. “We all know Gylhain, this is her town. It was her that defended the walls from the Stormcloaks, her that captured the dragon in the keep, her that first discovered her powers within sight of these walls. This is her town.” She grinned proudly.

“Right,” said Kara. “Thanks.” She moved away, exiting the inn into the pale light of dawn. The sun gently edged its way over the horizon behind her, the shadows still long, the marketplace still quiet. A single guard passed through, his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyeing up Kara and her weapon, but not stopping.

Kara approached the well, dropped the bucket down to fill it, and turned rapidly on the winch to raise it. She drank deeply from the cold, fresh water and left the bucket on the edge for the next thirsty soul.

It was too early for Belethor’s store to be open. But his assistant Sigurd was chopping wood around the side and seemed happy to have someone to talk to.

“Belethor treats me like dirt,” he said. “All I do is chop wood and sweep the floors. I know I could sell things if he gave me a chance! Man’s a letch, too,” he mumbled in addition.

Kara stood in silence at these remarks. “Fascinating,” she said. “But I asked about the Dragonborn. Do you know where I might find her?”

Sigurd tried to shrug, but the effect was somewhat lost as his axe thudded down into another log. He struggled to remove it, worked it back and forth, unable to get it free. After not very long, he sighed and gave up. He turned, gesturing to the next house along, closer to the gate.

“She lives right there,” he said. “Haven’t seen her in ages, though.”

Kara leaned forward, planted her boot on the log and extracted the axe with both hands. She handed it back to Sigurd silently.

“Th—thanks,” he said.

She turned away, looking towards the small, two-storey house that the Dragonborn (Gylhain, she reminded herself) called home. If Antario had been able to track her down, then Kara would do the same. In a few long strides, she was at the door, her fist pounding on the wood. There was no answer.

A guard, or perhaps the same one from before, noticed her interest.

“I wouldn’t bother,” they said through their helmet. “She ain’t been in for months.”

“Is she even in Skyrim?” Kara asked despondently. Antario would be so disappointed in her.

“Oh, sure,” the guard replied. “Tabur was on patrol out by the meadery last night, said she passed right though, headin north. Didn’t get no chance to speak to her, though.”

“Right,” said Kara. “Thanks.” Well, that was something. Antario would probably want to know right away, but she decided to let him sleep a while longer. The news, such as it was, would keep.

“Not a problem,” replied the guard. They hesitated, their face hidden but clearly deliberating their next comment. “Don’t go swinging that sword around in the city, alright?”

Kara forced a smile. “Of course not,” she said. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

 

Day having broken, Falin exited the Temple of Kynareth with Atahbah behind her. The Bosmer’s face must have given away her worry, for her Khajiit friend laid her paw on her shoulder.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “The priestess knows what she is doing.”

Falin let out a sigh. “More than me, anyway,” she said. “And I’m sure you’re right. He’s tough, but what we fought . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. I think we’re out of our depth.”

Atahbah shrugged. “He did save us all,” she said. And she was right: without Kureeth it was unlikely any of the caravan would be where they were now. The Argonian in question was resting in the Temple behind them, along with Khayla, one of the hounds having inflicted a deep wound along her arm. Ri’saad had stayed behind at the stables, minding the wagon and the all-important merchandise.

Falin nodded. “He did extraordinarily well, didn’t he?” Pride swept through her for a moment. “We all did. But he’s never been hurt this bad before . . . you should get back to the caravan, I’m sure Ri’saad still wants to do business today.”

“What about you?” asked Atahbah.

Falin looked up the hill towards Dragonsreach. “The Jarl needs to know there are demons roaming his lands. I won’t be long.”

She turned away, seeking a distraction. Only a few steps out from under the Gildergreen she found one: Kara, sprawled listlessly on a bench. Falin addressed the Nord woman by name to bring her out of a seeming trance.

“Falin, I . . . I’m surprised you remember me,” said Kara.

“It’s not every day you do what we did,” returned Falin. “What brings you to Whiterun?”

Kara looked away and was silent for a moment. “The caravan’s here, then?” she asked.

Falin frowned, but let the diversion slide. “Yes, we . . . we were attacked by demons on the road. I’m heading up to let the Jarl know.”

Kara met her eyes then. “Anyone hurt?”

“Yes.” Falin wasn’t in the mood for any further explanation.

Kara coughed. “Mind if I come along with you?”

“Glad of the company.” She moved away and heard Kara heave herself up and follow. They didn’t speak on their way up the stairs to Dragonsreach. Falin pulled her hood back as a gesture of transparency as she approached the large double-doors that led into the main hall. The guard posted there stepped neatly in front of her, barring her way.

“What is your business in Dragonsreach?” he asked, hands firmly on hips. His helmet made his expression unassessable.

“I need to speak with the Jarl,” Falin said, struggling to keep her breathing level. “It’s urgent, lives could be—lives have _already_ been in danger.”

The guard was silent for a moment, then stepped aside, pushing open one of the doors for her. “Don’t go causing any trouble now,” he added. Falin forced a nod and a smile, and entered Dragonsreach.

Striding quickly up the long cavernous hall, Falin approached the Jarl, who was seated in his throne, despite the early hour. But she and Kara were halted by an armoured Dunmer woman with red hair and a longsword at her hip.

“It is too early for the Jarl to be disturbed,” the woman said. “Come back later.”

But the Jarl (whose name Falin now remembered was Balgruuf) interrupted. “It’s alright, Irileth, let them through. My mind works just as well in the mornings, I assure you.”

Irileth moved aside with no visible response, and took her place on Balgruuf’s left. Falin stood at the base of the stairs that led up to the throne. She cleared her throat, for once unsure of her words.

“What seems to be the problem?” the Jarl asked.

Diving in, Falin began her tale. “My lord, my husband and I handle security for one of the Khajiiti caravans that travel between the cities of this province.”

The Jarl smiled. “You work for Ri’saad? Canny old thing, isn’t he?”

Falin managed her own smile. “Indeed, my lord. However, on the road south of here last night—only a few hours ago—our caravan was attacked. By demons out of Oblivion.”

There was silence in the hall for a moment. The Jarl folded his arms. “Did your party sustain any injuries?”

Falin was surprised at his concern. “Yes, my”—she tried to keep the catch out of her voice—“my husband was hurt badly. He’s resting in the Temple of Kynareth. The other bodyguard, Khayla, was hurt too.”

The Jarl nodded. “Good. Danica knows her craft.” He heaved himself up from his throne. “But this is not the first report we’ve had of such attacks. A hunter from Riverwood encountered what he could only describe as demonic wolves. And we’ve received word that Jarl Siddgeir in Falkreath has been hearing similar stories.”

He fell silent, standing perfectly still and staring up into the ceiling cavity. The burden of his office seemed to weigh him down such that he was unable to move. Nobody in the hall made a sound. Eventually, he sighed deeply and returned his gaze to Falin.

“My guards are stretched thin as it is,” he said. “And my steward is fond of reminding me that little can be spared from the coffers. However, given the seriousness of the situation, I will meet with Jarl Siddgeir and attempt to pool our resources. I will not sit idly by while the people of Skyrim are ravaged by Daedric forces.”

Falin bowed. “Thank you, my lord,” she said. It was more than she had hoped for, but Balgruuf had a reputation as a man with a hatred of inaction.

Balgruuf waved away her thanks with a hand. “You did well to bring it to my attention so quickly.” He descended the stairs, extending his hand for her to shake. She did so. “Whatever your allegiances,” he added, “many will see every Bosmer as part of the Dominion, and treat you as their enemy. Tread carefully.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Falin repeated.

Balgruuf allowed himself a short glance at Kara, before dropping his voice significantly lower. “And perhaps inform your friend that the Thalmor are looking for someone of her description.”

Falin turned to Kara, who had heard clearly enough for a frown to set on her face. The Nord woman began to fidget. The Jarl moved away and to the right, beckoning to his steward to follow. “Send a letter to Siddgeir right away,” he said, his voice echoing once again. “Friendly, but firm. Insist that we meet here. I’ll be damned if I break bread in the hall of that milk-drinker.”

Falin turned away, wishing she’d been able to get more words out. Back outside, she stood at the top of the stairs, casting quick glances at Kara, and wondered what trouble she and Antario had gotten themselves into. The town began to bustle as the morning got underway. Falin headed quickly towards the Temple of Kynareth. Perhaps Kureeth would have awoken.


	31. Distractions

The same morning that Falin and Kara had their audience with Balgruuf, Vash was awoken by a knocking at his door that refused to cease. He threw himself out of bed and thrust into his robes, realising that the knocking was in fact the tune to ‘The Age of Aggression.’

He yanked it open to reveal Dar’epha, dressed in full Guild armour and smiling widely.

“Greetings, Archmage!” she announced. Vash winced, and she smiled wider.

“Stendarr’s wrath, what time do you call this?” he asked. “And what are you doing here?” He let her in and closed the door. Looking upwards to the window in his ceiling, he saw only the faintest glimmer of light seeped through. He took a lantern off a shelf and lit it with a burst of flame, bringing the room into a fuller light.

“Dawn should be breakin any moment,” the Khajiit said, bouncing on her heels. “And you didn’t think I miss the grand reunion, didya?”

Vash groaned. He fumbled around for a goblet. With one hand he conjured a small ball of ice that he dropped into it. With the same hand he made the tiniest wisp of a flame, moving it swiftly around the edges of the goblet. When he dismissed the spell, the goblet was filled with clean water, which he drank deeply.

“Neat trick,” said Dar’epha, her eyebrows raised.

“Want me to do some for you?” he asked.

“Nah. Did Gyl get in?”

“Yes,” he replied, clearing his throat. “She’s asleep over in the Hall of Countenance. Should we wake her?”

Dar’epha waved a paw. “Nah, I’m sure she needs the sleep.” She changed the subject quickly. “I noticed the town looked less shitty on the way up.”

Vash laughed, unable to take offence, at least from her. Dar’epha had visited a few times since Gylhain’s departure, but not for a couple of months. “Thanks,” he said. “I do my best.”

She slid her backside onto the table, swinging her legs wildly. “So, I stopped for a bit in Windhelm on the way ’ere, seems there was a big fight there last night. Our old friend Antario, sounds like.”

Vash set his goblet down, trying to keep up with her leaps and bounds of thought. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met Antario,” he said. “What happened?”

“Seems the Thalmor are after him again. Three bodies—him and the woman who was lodgin with him have disappeared.”

Vash was unmoved. “I told Gylhain about the Thalmor last night. This is the first I’ve heard of deaths, though.”

“You reckon they’re up to something?” asked Dar’epha.

“Given everything that’s happened, it seems likely.”

“You wanna help stop ’em?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s go wake up Gyl.”

* * *

 

Breakfast was a leisurely affair. Vash pulled his little round table out from the wall and cleared away his scrolls and books. They were placed with a large bowl of horker and vegetable stew, an apple each, and a jug of cold water—magicked up by Vash’s method.

Dar’epha was seated first, spooning large quantities of stew into her bowl. After initial greetings, there was silence around the table, none of the friends feeling the need to interrupt the air with their voices. Dar’epha also finished first, lifting the bowl to her mouth to slurp the last dregs of her fourth portion, then biting into her apple noisily.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked between bites of the cold fruit. She and Vash both looked at Gylhain.

The Dragonborn calmly scooped out her bowl before answering. “There isn’t one, really,” she said eventually. “I thought we’d head to Whiterun. It’s the centre of Skyrim; if something’s going on, they’ll know there.”

Vash wiped his mouth with his sleeve and picked up his cup. “We’ll need to make a detour. I have some College business to deal with along the White River.”

“That’s fine,” continued Gylhain. “I don’t think we’re in any special hurry.”

Dar’epha shook her head in agreement and stretched back in her chair, popping the apple core into her mouth. She spat the seeds in perfect arcs into her bowl, with small repeated plinks.

* * *

 

Vash, eager to demonstrate the improvements to the Winterhold, insisted they take the carriage. He instructed the driver, Markus, to take the long way to Whiterun, around past Windhelm and up the White River.

The rupture was further west than the letter had described, but still fell under the domain of the Jarl of Eastmarch. The carriage lurched to a halt, stopped by a bored-looking solider of the Legion and a Windhelm guard.

“Road’s closed,” said the guard to Markus. “You’ll have find another way.”

Vash leapt from back of the wagon, the staff of Magnus in his right hand. He did a short bow. “I am the Archmage of the College of Winterhold,” he announced. “I am here to seal the breach.”

The guard was taken aback, and the soldier became instantly alert. Vash wished for umpteenth time that his orcish appearance was not so obtuse. “My apologies, Archmage,” said the guard. “It’s right this way, if you’ll follow me.”

Vash looked back at his companions: Dar’epha was dozing, her hood pulled low over her eyes, but Gylhain returned Vash’s glance.

“Need any help?” asked the Dragonborn, back in simple travelling clothes, but still ready to lend a hand.

Vash shook his head. “Thanks. But this is my responsibility.” He turned away, using the staff as a walking stick as he followed the guard down the road as it sloped slightly down. The White River was on their right, and they soon came in sight of a ford that led to a steep path on the other side. The guard stopped a fair distance away.

“It appeared right in the centre of the ford,” he said, unwilling to go any further.

“No injuries?” asked Vash.

“Only minor ones,” came the answer. “Those . . . things don’t seem to want to go far.”

“Thank you,” said Vash. “This shouldn’t take too long.” The guard nodded and backed away even further.

Vash approached the breach. The sundering of the air became clear as he stepped off the road and between two trees onto the shore of the river. None of the College had a concrete theory as to why these incidents were occurring. It had something to do with the Eye, that was certain, but beyond that they were fumbling in the dark. At least, Vash thought, he knew how to stop them.

Sensing his presence, the ‘anomalies’, as he’d come to call them, ceased their aimless flittering about and came speedily towards him. Three this time, small greenish wisps that swam through the air, darting and dodging with great agility. Vash acted with both hands at once, casting a bolt from the staff at one, while sending a jagged line of lightning at another. The one hit by the latter attack dissolved instantly, the former merely rolling back with the blow and continuing its advance.

The anomaly he hadn’t yet hit was the first to reach him, but it bounced harmlessly off a ward he’d hastily conjured. Getting an idea, he pushed the ward away from him, cannoning the wisp across the river and slamming it into the bank. But it seemed unaffected by physical attacks. The other anomaly, now almost upon him, he burned up with a great gout of flame. It vanished with a whoosh of energy that almost staggered him.

The final anomaly, perhaps now angered by the attacks, came zooming across the water at knee height. Vash waited until the last moment, then used the butt of the staff to send it careening up into the blue sky, then followed it up with another burst of lightning. Finally, knowing he had to act before any more came forth, he charged up the staff, almost to the point of overloading, and sent a huge burst of energy into the breach itself. It shuddered, folded in on itself, then dissipated. It sent out a burst of force as it did so that would have floored Vash had he not been ready for it.

He surveyed the now quiet surrounds with satisfaction, then turned to return the way he’d come. The guard shook his hand and thanked him, ensuring him that the Jarl would send payment to the College in thanks. Vash clamboured back into the carriage, and they trundled on.

“Any trouble?” asked Gylhain.

“None at all,” smiled Vash, pleased with his work.

“What’s ’at?” mumbled Dar’epha, still drowsy. “Did we stop?”

“Yeah,” said Gylhain. “But Whiterun’s not far off.”

“Oh, good,” said Dar’epha, scratching the scars on her nose but not opening her eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”


	32. Coalescence Redux

The carriage dropped Vash, Dar’epha, and Gylhain in front of the Whiterun Stables, the morning sun bearing down on them. The three companions disembarked, thanked Markus and strolled towards the town. Dar’epha yawned frequently, and Gylhain often shifted her pack in its place over her shoulder. Vash frowned and stopped, noticing another wagon the others had not.

“Wait,” he said, and they did, looking at him expectantly. He stepped around the wagon and peered into the uncovered back. Inside he saw a dozing Khajiit he recognised as Ri’saad, from the few times over the past year that the trading caravan had visited Winterhold. The feline trader’s eyes flicked open, meeting Vash’s.

“Archmage,” said Ri’saad. “This one did not expect to see you in Whiterun.” He rose, unsurprised at seeing the other two figures. “Dovahkiin. Dar’epha. This one should have expected that you were acquainted. What brings you here, hmm?”

Dar’epha spoke first. “We’re looking for the Thalmor. We think they’re up to somethin’.”

“Are they not always?” asked Ri’saad. “When one goes looking for trouble, see that it does not find one first. It has certainly found this one.”

“What happened?” asked Vash. “Why aren’t you at your stall in the city?”

Ri’saad spoke slowly, his voice, for once, thick and solemn. “This one’s caravan was attacked upon the road, a ways north of Riverwood.”

Gylhain frowned. “Bandits?” she asked. “I thought that route was relatively safe.”

Vash shared the Dragonborn’s confusion. “And I thought you had ample security. Falin and Kureeth seemed very competent when you introduced me.”

“If only it had been bandits,” spoke Ri’saad. “But it was demons.”

There was silence for a moment. “Fuck . . .” breathed Dar’epha eventually.

“Is everyone alright?” asked Vash.

Ri’saad shrugged. “This one is well, though much trading time has been lost. Khayla was bitten upon the arm, Kureeth took a sword into his side. He toppled a dremora, however.”

“A dremora?” interjected Gylhain. “I’d like to speak to this Kureeth.”

“This one believes they are within the Temple of Kynareth,” Ri’saad informed them. “If you should pass Atahbah—but there she is.” They looked: advancing under the first stone arch was another Khajiit figure.

“For now this one must bid you good day,” he said, “and proceed with the getting of profits.” Greetings were exchanged with Atahbah, and the pair set about unloading various wares and items from the back of the wagon. The three companions said their farewells and set up the path towards the town.

“You know this Kureeth?” Gylhain asked Vash as they walked.

“We barely spoke,” said Vash. “Giant of an Argonian, unarmed fighter. Doesn’t say much. You’d probably like him.”

“I know him,” said Dar’epha. “Surprised you don’t ’member the name, Gyl.” She paused but there was no response. “Him and Falin helped take down Jonah, back when that was happenin. Wait . . . he took down a dremora with just his fists? I’ve ain’t ever seen him or Falin in action, but shit, that’s impressive.”

“Indeed,” said Gylhain. “We shall ask him and Falin about this attack. If daedra are roaming the countryside, we need to stop them.”

* * *

 

Kureeth had regained consciousness about an hour earlier, staring up at the roof beams of the Temple, not moving any part of his body. Eventually, he sat up with a low grunt and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. To his left sat Falin, dozing in a chair. He moved slowly, not wanting to startle her. He looked down at himself and saw that he was bare-chested, a large pale bandage wrapped around his stomach, stained red on one side. He explored it gently with his fingers, withdrawing when the pain got too much.

He must have made more noise than he thought, for Falin’s eyes eased open. She met his with a concerned smile.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

He shrugged, seguing it into an experimental stretch of his arms. He felt no pain from those movements—indeed he felt rather well, given that he’d taken a hit from a dremora.

“How long?” he asked.

“A few hours,” she replied. “It’s almost noon, I think, though I dozed off a little there. Try not to move about too much, the priestess said you need to rest.”

Kureeth grunted his disbelief. In the years they’d been together, Falin had become a master at reading her husband’s various non-verbal communications and single-word responses. He dropped heavily off the side of the bed onto his feet, standing tall and rolling his shoulders. From across the room the priestess frowned at him, but he sent a glare her way, daring her to try and stop him. On the next bed over, he noticed Khayla, leafing through a tattered book.

“Lookin pretty well,” she said, also standing, tucking the book under one arm. She sported a bandage too, wrapped around her left forearm.

“Miss anything?” asked Kureeth.

Falin answered before Khayla could. “I spoke to the Jarl this morning about the attack. I think he might actually do something, but what chance his guards will have against daedra, I don’t know.”

Not much, Kureeth thought.

Khayla coughed. “This one will head down to the caravan, perhaps be of aid to Ri’saad.” She exited the Temple.

“Oh,” added Falin, “and Kara’s in town. With Thalmor after her, which I bet means Antario’s with her, though I didn’t see him. Probably best he stays out of sight, I reckon. And your fur’s got a big gash in it.” She reached around her chair and picked up the bloodstained armour. Light could be seen where the dremora’s sword had cut through.

Kureeth ran his fingers over the gap, remembering the daedric sword cutting through it like it wasn’t even there. Perhaps he could try wearing heavier armour, he thought, once he could afford it. But that would sacrifice the mobility essential to his fighting style. If only he could find something more durable, but still light, something like—

It was at that moment the Temple door opened again and three mismatched figures entered. The first he recognised as the orc Archmage they’d met in Winterhold some months back, who was pulling the hood of his robes back to expose his bare scalp. The second was a large Breton woman, dressed in brown travelling clothes, her hair unkempt and a scimitar at her hip. The third was Dar’epha, her eyes darting around the room, her smile wide. She led the way over to Kureeth and Falin.

“Fancy seein you two here,” said Dar’epha. She gestured at her companions. “I hear you met Vash already. Then this here’s Gylhain.”

“Ri’saad informed us that you were attacked on the road,” Vash said. “I hope you are recovering well.”

“Heard you beat down a dremora,” added Gylhain, crossing her arms. “Impressive.”

“You want to hear the story?” asked Falin. There were nods all round. She went through it step-by-step, all the way from the bad dealings in Falkreath. She told of the dark wagon ride and the eyes of their Khajiiti friends peering into the night. She told of the horrible sounds and the figures that had emerged from the dark, of how Kureeth had stood his ground, how the sword had cleaved into him (and here her voice cracked a little) and how they’d hauled him into the wagon and sped towards Whiterun.

There was a moment of silence after she’d finished. Kureeth stretched his arms again.

“You need tougher armour,” said Gylhain.

“Slows me down,” replied Kureeth.

Gylhain frowned as if considering something. “What about dragonscale?” she asked. “Tough as they come, but light enough to let you move about.”

Falin let out a short laugh. “Dragonscale? Where are we going to find a set of that? Let alone be able to afford it?”

Dar’epha laughed in return. “You don’t know who you’re talkin to, do you? Gyl’s the Dragonborn, she’s got the biggest fuckin stash of armour and weapons in Skyrim. You can bet there’s plenty of dragonscale in there.”

Several heads in the Temple turned at the word ‘Dragonborn’. Kureeth reassessed the Breton. A warrior who had defeated the World-Eater, who had ended the Civil War, right there with them in the Temple, listening to their little story. Even Falin was speechless.

“Would you accept a gift?” asked the Dragonborn. “If we get Adrianne to make a few alterations, I think my set of dragonscale could fit you quite nicely.”

Kureeth frowned. He hadn’t received a lot of gifts in his life. Falin elbowed him in the side—thankfully his unwounded side.

“Of course we accept,” she said. “And we cannot thank you enough.”

Gylhain shrugged like she could give away such priceless artefacts every day and still feel no loss.

* * *

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent slowly. Vash and Falin remained in the Temple, helping the priestess with the other sick and wounded there. Vash, always ready to admit his own lack of ability as a healer, was impressed by Falin’s talent with alchemy and the Restoration school.

Gylhain and Kureeth spent the time at Adrianne’s forge, the Dragonborn helping the smith with the alterations to the dragonscale armour. She spoke to the Argonian of old battles and fighting strategies. Gylhain did most of the talking, but on the matter of fighting Kureeth was ready with a few choice pieces of advice, distilled into the shortest form possible. Gylhain was reminded that there was always more she could learn.

Dar’epha disappeared for most of the afternoon, and did not reappear when dinner rolled around. Gylhain had invited Kureeth and Falin to join them in Breezehome for the meal, and she was cooking up a vegetable stew and roasting a large leg of beef, the juices dripping into the firepit.

* * *

 

Gylhain had just finished dishing up when Dar’epha slipped in.

“Turns out our old friend Antario’s in town,” she said.

“You know Antario?” asked Falin. “I saw Kara earlier, the Jarl said the Thalmor are looking for someone of her description.”

“Kara, too?” said Gylhain. “Too many coincidences, I think.”

“Ain’t that always the way?” grinned Dar’epha. “Anyway, he wants to speak to you.” She looked around at the gathered group. “Alone.”

“It’s fine, keep eating,” said Gylhain.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Dar’epha, already with her paw on a ladle. Gylhain looked at her pointedly. “What?” she asked.

“Where am I meeting him?” asked Gylhain.

“Oh. The upstairs room at the Bannered Mare.”

* * *

 

Gylhain trod alone through the now-darkened Whiterun, her scimitar still at her belt. The Bannered Mare thronged with the warmth and noise of the evening crowd. She waved to Saadia at the bar, and exchanged passing greetings with many other Whiterun residents, all familiar to her, all seeming genuinely glad to see her again.

Upstairs, she gave a harsh knock on the door. There was a delay, a scraping of wood on wood, then the door opened to reveal Kara. The tall woman was dressed in fur and had her greatsword pointed at Gylhain’s heart.

“Put that away, Kara,” said Gylhain. “You know it wouldn’t stop me.”

Kara looked at the floor for a moment before lowering the blade and stepping back. Gylhain closed the door behind her and entered the room, lit by a single lantern. On the bed sat Antario, who rose and pulled his hood back.

“You have my thanks for coming, Dovahkiin,” spoke Antario. Gylhain had forgotten how polished his voice was. “I can well understand your trepidation in these times, but please, there is nothing for you to fear in this room.”

“These times?” asked Gylhain. “I’ve been back in Skyrim for all of two days. You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

Kara and Antario shared a glance before the Altmer continued.

“Firstly, I would have it known between us that I hold you no ill-feeling for not being present when Jonah and I met for the final time. I was fortunate enough to have able aid with me; what is more, I discovered later you were on your way to destroying the Dark Brotherhood: an objectively more important task.” He paused for a moment. No part of his body moved in gestures as he spoke. “Kara and I are not in agreement on this point.”

Kara grunted.

“For what it’s worth,” said Gylhain, “I’m sorry. I promised to help you and I didn’t.”

“Well,” said Antario, “Kara has proved herself most competent with a bladed weapon.”

It was Gylhain’s turn to grunt. “Must have improved since I saw her last. So it was you two who killed the Thalmor in Windhelm last night, I take it?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” replied Antario. “My once-colleagues have apparently again become convinced of the necessity of my elimination. I believe they have disastrous designs upon Skyrim.”

“What is it this time?” asked Gylhain.

“I do not know,” explained Antario. “But the large amounts of Thalmor agents abroad in Skyrim cannot be put down to mere happenstance. I heard tell of some descending into Blackreach to set up something . . . but I never discovered what.”

Gylhain shook her head. “I’m not hiking through Blackreach again on a rumour. You’ll have to give me something more solid than that.”

“There, at least, I can help you,” Antario assured her. “There is a large Thalmor base located at Labyrinthian. Whether they are delving into the ruins or merely running operations from there, I do not know. Kara has told me of these . . . demonic attacks. I would not put it past the Thalmor to be connected in some way.”

“Then I’ll head up there tomorrow,” said Gylhain. She hesitated. “And I’ll spend the night outside your door. I failed you once, I need to make that up to you.”

“I can handle that,” said Kara.

“Even you require sleep at some point, Kara,” said Antario.

“And you’re on the wanted list too, now,” said Gylhain. “Sit tight for a minute, I’ll be back.”

* * *

 

Gylhain darted back to Breezehome, scarfed down some stew, and told the others what she’d learned. Vash cautioned Gylhain against staying up all night when they had such a long and possibly dangerous trip to Labyrinthian planned in the morning. Dar’epha suggested a rolling guard, each taking relatively short shifts at Antario and Kara’s door.

Gylhain put the double bed upstairs at Kureeth and Falin’s disposal, the latter insisting that they come along to Labyrinthian. She even suggested they persuade Ri’saad to take them up in his wagon. Gylhain accepted this, but would not hear of either of them pulling a guard shift. Instead, she divided it into four blocks. She would take the first and last, Vash the second, Dar’epha the third.

Dar’epha took the upstairs spare room, as she had always done. The alchemy lab had long been converted to have its own bed, which went to Vash.

Gylhain met Ri’saad downstairs in the Bannered Mare, nursing a single drink. Reluctantly, he agreed to take them near to Labyrinthian in the morning, leaving Atahbah and Khayla to manage the stall for the day.

“But how will they manage without this one’s delicate words?” he asked.

Gylhain rolled her eyes. “I’ll reimburse you the difference,” she said.

Ri’saad lit up. “This one must warn you—the difference is significant.”

“I’m sure it is, Ri’saad,” said Gylhain. She trod upstairs to inform Kara and Antario of the arrangements she’d made.

“We’re coming with you,” said Kara.

Gylhain frowned. Their party already numbered five, but seven? She hadn’t fought as a part of such a large group since the war.

“I am afraid I also must insist,” said Antario. “I have done too much damage in my past to allow the Thalmor to perpetuate their bloodshed again. When the dawn comes, we ride with you.”


	33. Chaos at Labyrinthian

Gylhain called a halt well before the ascent towards Labyrinthian, and instructed Ri’saad to leave the wagon just beside the jutting trunk of a fallen tree that was propped up against the hill. Everyone except the Khajiiti driver climbed to the ground.

“This one is reluctant to go much further anyway,” grumbled Ri’saad.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do more than wait for us here,” said Gylhain. She looked at Dar’epha, who raised an eyebrow.

“Want me to do some scoutin?” the thief asked, already knowing the answer.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you mind if I come with you?” asked Falin, moving to follow Dar’epha up the crest of the hill.

Dar’epha and Gylhain exchanged glances. “I work better alone,” said Dar’epha.

“I can handle myself,” objected Falin. “I’m good at Illusion magic, I can stay undetected just as well as you.”

“I doubt it,” said Dar’epha. She unstrapped her bow from her back and strung it, holding it loosely in her left hand. “But come on, then.”

Falin turned back to the others. “If we get in trouble, I’ll send a spark of red up into the sky,” she said.

“A most excellent suggestion,” said Antario. The Khajiit and the Bosmer scrambled northwards. Gylhain was pulling on her ebony armour, and Kureeth had hardly taken off his new dragonscale set since he’d received it. Kara remained in furs, and Antario and Vash in their robes. Silently, they waited.

* * *

 

Dar’epha edged onwards, Falin close behind her. The orange-brown grass gave way to snow, and the pair began the descent into the pass that led to Labyrinthian. Dar’epha’s eyes scanned all around them. Nothing else moved in the valley as they advanced.

“Can you see anything?” whispered Falin.

“No,” replied Dar’epha curtly. The first stone arch loomed above them and they hid behind the middle pillar that jutted from the centre of the valley. Dar’epha peeked around the side, withdrawing instantly. “There’s a guard on the wall,” she said. “Take a look.”

Falin chanced a peek. There was indeed a guard, dressed in elven armour, on the wall past the second arch—a formidable stone wall with an arched gateway though its centre. Possibly once it would have supported a thick unbreakable gate, but that was long gone. Now the way into Labyrinthian was open to any who wanted to enter.

“You got a weapon?” asked Dar’epha, fixing an arrow to her bow. “Or do you just use magic?”

“You’re going to kill him?” asked Falin, her voice rising too loud for a moment before she checked herself. “We were just supposed to scout!” she hissed.

Dar’epha sighed. “You’re right. I should get ’em up close, less chance of his body fallin and attractin attention.”

“That’s not what I said at all!” said Falin, her voice rising again.

“Keep it down!” growled Dar’epha. “And follow me, if you can stay quiet for long enough.”

Gritting her teeth to the Khajiit’s bards, Falin followed. Their steps did not make a sound upon the cold ground. The guard, obliviously looking back into the ruins, did not see them. Behind the second pillar, they paused again.

“Stay here,” breathed Dar’epha, her voice barely audible. “This ain’t a job for the soft-hearted.” Falin felt her temper rising, but kept quiet as Dar’epha strapped her bow to her back and drew a glass dagger. She then moved to the left, leapt silently from rock to rock with ease, her paws finding purchase on the icy stones of the wall. She clamboured to the top and dropped to a low crouch, then crept along the wall until she was behind the elven guard. Silently she reached up and drew her dagger across the elf’s throat, gently lowering his body down. Turning to grin at Falin, she crept back along the wall and came down the same way.

By the time she’d reached Falin, her grin had disappeared. “The Thalmor are here alright,” she said. “Camped out around the barrow in the middle, in the ruins and a bunch of tents. I’m gonna go round, get some from the other side. You’d better stay here, you’d just slow me down.” She had her bow in hand again, and an arrow ready to launch.

“You can’t just kill them all!” protested Falin.

“Why not?” said Dar’epha with a scoffing tone. “They’d do the same to us.”

Falin tried an argument she still struggled to convince herself of. “We’re better than them,” she said. “If we go around killing indiscriminately like they do, we become just as bad as they are.”

Dar’epha shrugged. “If you want to get rid of evil, you gotta get right down into the shit,” she said. “That’s the sacrifice. Ask Gylhain about the awful things she’s done. She ain’t a hero—and you signed up for this too. We can do this one of two ways: either you stay here and let me get on with doin my thing, or you send up that signal. A lotta people are gonna get killed, the only difference is the how. Thalmor ain’t gonna offer up any answers for free.”

There was silence. Dar’epha had surprised herself; she wasn’t usually one for justifying her own actions, or lecturing on morality. Or lecturing on anything, really. “Well?” she asked.

Falin was a picture of frustration. “Fine,” she said, weaving her hands through the air, teeth pressed together. A red bulb of light rocketed into the sky with a blazing trail behind it. Dar’epha grinned again.

“That’s more like it,” she said. A yell came from the Thalmor camp. “Now they know we’re comin. Let’s do this.”

* * *

 

The Dragonborn was on the move as soon as she saw the signal. She yelled “Come on!” as she created the hill. Kureeth, Kara, Vash, and Antario rushed to follow, but they were left far behind as Gylhain spoke the words of the Dovah: “ _Wuld Nah Kest!”_

The Whirlwind Sprint carried her down the valley to the first arch and as she came out of it she kept up a pace almost as furious. Dar’epha was standing up on the wall, loosing arrow after arrow down into the ruins. Falin was nowhere in sight.

Gylhain drew her scimitar and rushed through the gateway, into the Thalmor charging up the stairs and around the lone stone column at the top. The first, she slammed into the column, crushing their head with her glass shield. Then she moved around the column to the left, cutting savagely at neck-height, sending out a gust of blood and a Thalmor head rolling down the stairs. More armoured soldiers advanced on her position. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Dar’epha move to higher ground to the left, raining arrows down on the camp below.

The ferocity of Gylhain’s attack forced the few Thalmor on the stairs back down, knocking several off their feet in a chain reaction. Gylhain laughed inside her ebony helmet and advanced again.

From her position overlooking the ruins, Dar’epha could see the others finally joining the fight. Kureeth was first to arrive, seemingly enjoying the mobility his new dragonscale armour offered him, dodging blows as often as he caught them, wrenching weapons from hands, plunging fists into faces, sweeping elves off their feet with his tail. Kara, despite her lack of proper armour, roared forwards, her huge steel greatsword ready to cleave bodies in two.

Suddenly her skin flashed green as Vash wrapped a protection spell around her. He did the same for himself and Antario, then conjured a shimmering axe and began snaking fireballs into the enemy. From the looks on some of the Thalmor agents’ faces, it was clear they recognised Antario, striding tall in his resplendent robes, wielding his sword and launching lightning bolts. He displayed no reluctance in fighting his old faction, Dar’epha noted with approval.

More Thalmor emerged from tents and the ruins, warriors in elven armour and mages in long black robes. They hurriedly armed themselves against the attack, many recognising Gylhain as well as Antario. The Dragonborn had been on the Thalmor’s hit list for a very long time. But their swords glanced off her armour, their spells dissolved on the enchantments build into her shield—and her scimitar cut their necks, found holes in their armour, and drove through skin and organs.

Falin appeared in the snow, a spell ready in each hand. A moment later, the Thalmor’s horses, huddled on the far side of the barrow, suddenly erupted into chaos, stampeding through the camp, trampling many high elves beneath their hooves. Falin paralysed a charging warrior, then vanished again. Dar’epha grunted. Perhaps the little wood elf could take care of herself after all.

The newly-formed group was not used to working together, and it showed. Tackling an enemy, Kureeth carried his target so far he knocked down Gylhain as well.

“Shit!” exclaimed the Dragonborn as she hit the frozen ground. “Watch it!” She staggered back up, a Thalmor sword deflecting harmlessly off her helmet, but jolting her vision. She pushed forward with her shield, following it up with a savage overhead strike that caved in her enemy’s helmet.

Atop the low central barrow, Vash whirled with his axe, his latest fireball sent careening off in an undesired direction due to an incoming sword. He parried it with his weapon, then hit upon the idea of wielding a _flaming_ axe, and did so, combining the spells to become an even more formidable fighter. His foes did not last long.

His careening fireball, however, came within a hair’s breadth of engulfing Kara. She felt its extreme heat as it whistled past her face, holding her breath, sweat pooling on her brow. She pressed forward as soon as it had passed, swinging her sword in a high arc that opened a mage’s throat, but also almost took out Antario, the long swings of her huge sword decreasing her effectiveness in close quarters with allies. Fortunately, Antario saw it coming and ducked, rising to deliver a blast of lightning at point-blank range into a warrior’s face.

Dar’epha observed all these errors and more from her perch, still raining arrows down. She clenched her teeth. If these new allies were going to stay on and help them take down whatever plots the Thalmor had cooked up, then they would need to start actually working as a team, rather than each fighting their own small battles across the ruin.

It was testament to each individual’s skill, a great deal of luck, and Dar’epha’s aiding arrows, that they all managed to survive relatively unscathed. Dar’epha launched her final arrow for the day into a Thalmor mage’s leg, causing him to slump in the snow. With that, they were defeated, their camp destroyed.

Gylhain and Kureeth converged on the wounded mage, the former getting there before the latter, grabbing the mage and punching him in the face with an armoured fist.

“What’s the plan?” yelled the Dragonborn. “Spill it!”

The mage laughed. Dar’epha looked carefully around for any more foes; the situation was a little too familiar for her liking. Gylhain punched the mage again.

“Kureeth, break his legs,” she said. The Argonian grasped the mage’s left leg and was about to start applying pressure when the mage spluttered. His face was bloody, but his glee shined through.

“Y . . . you’re too late, Dovahkiin,” he said. “You’ll never s-stop it now. But w-why don’t you g-go down to Blackreach and h-have a look for yourself.”

Gylhain slammed her sword into the Thalmor’s chest, hauling it out with violent force. Turning, she saw the mismatched group gathered there—except Dar’epha, who had climbed down from her perch and was collecting arrows from the dead.

The Khajiit plucked one arrow from an eye and called out, “That was a fuckin shambles! You dimwits almost killed each other a buncha times.”

Gylhain’s eyes passed over each of those who had chosen to accompany her. Dar’epha, her friend from years past, an angry half-smile on her face, rifling through dead mer’s pockets for spare change. Vash, on his side since the business with the Dark Brotherhood, and a finer orc or mage she’d never met. Antario, too, she’d seen could fight well enough. She wondered for the first time just how old the high elf was.

But the others were untried, as far as she was concerned. Kureeth was a powerhouse, but an uncontrolled one. Falin was versatile, but relied too much on others. Kara was reckless, and fought as if she was the only one in the fight.

And then Gylhain turned her gaze inwards. She, who had rushed ahead of the others for her own selfish purposes, her desire to throw herself into every disaster headfirst. Always blind spots, she knew, always places to improve. But these people looked to her for authority. She made a decision.

“If we’re going to down to Blackreach,” she said, “you lot are going to need some better gear.”


	34. Down to the Depths

The group’s return to Whiterun was not a pleasant one. Caught up in an anti-mer backlash, the people of Whiterun had somehow discovered that Antario had stayed at the Bannered Mare. Perhaps a bartender had let something slip. Perhaps one of the other lodgers had seen him. Whatever the origin, the consequence was the same: while the people of the town seemed to be going about their normal business, Gylhain could tell that all eyes were trained on her and her allies. She could feel the resentment and hatred bubbling beneath the surface, feel it ready to burst loose at any moment. But the Dragonborn was still in full armour, splattered with blood, and despite her recent absence, the people of Whiterun would not turn against her lightly.

Gylhain left the others out the front of Breezehome, directing them to make themselves comfortable inside while she went to speak to Jarl Balgruuf. Vash accompanied her without a word.

They gained little from the Jarl that Falin had not already told them. There had been several reports of daedric attacks to the south, around Riverwood and further south into Falkreath hold. Attempts to get the guards to investigate had so far turned up nothing. Gylhain let Vash recount a brief version of the fight at Labyrinthian, along with what they knew of the expanding Thalmor plans.

Gylhain spoke little after that. She was turning over the idea of returning to Blackreach for . . . what would it be now, the fourth time? It no longer intimidated her as it had in her younger adventuring days, but she was still in awe of its size and wary of its dangers, and was unsure how any of her companions would cope in the monolithic cavern.

Returning to Breezehome, Gylhain was dismayed to discover a small mob massed outside her home; citizens of Whiterun, angrily milling at her door. Several scattered when she approached, but many more stayed put. Avulstein Grey-Mane stepped up to Gylhain and Vash as they approached.

“We heard you’re hiding an elf or two in there,” the large Nord said, full of bluster and importance. “Hand ’em over, and things won’t have to get nasty.”

Gylhain’s face hardened. “Vash, go inside,” she said. The crowd parted to let the orc through, who slipped inside and closed the door. Gylhain shook her head. “After all I’ve done for you damn people,” she said, scanning the faces in the crowd, all of whom she recognised. “You think I would harbour a Thalmor spy?”

“You’ve been gone a long while,” spat out Avulstein. “Who knows what coulda changed?”

Gylhain pulled up close to the man’s face, her teeth grinding in rage. “You morons make me sick with the shit that leaks out of your brains. If you can call them that.” With this last word, spittle flecked onto Avulstein’s face. “Now get the fuck out of my way before I carve you in two.”

Avulstein swallowed heavily and stepped back. The crowd scattered to let the Dragonborn through. She opened her door, but turned back to face the people of the town she’d helped so much.

“If any of you feels like breaching my property,” she warned them, “be assured that I will use lethal force to defend it. How many of you favour your chances?”

* * *

 

They spent the rest of the day within Breezehome. Gylhain emptied out her many chests and cupboards full of weapons and armour, putting them at her companions’ disposal. Over her years of adventuring, the Dragonborn had acquired a veritable arsenal of powerful gear, much of which throbbed with a vicious energy that all the mages could sense. There were several items she refused to display altogether.

Dar’epha’s bow was glass, a previous gift of Gylhain’s, and she declined anything further. But when a glass sword was revealed—an exact copy of Chillrend, but with the advantage of not freezing one’s hand—Dar’epha smiled and almost snatched at it.

“For when things get too close,” said Gylhain.

“Or when you run out of arrows,” added Falin.

“Please,” said Dar’epha, “like that’ll ever happen.”

Although there were several staves on offer, Vash declined politely, preferring to rely completely on his own magic. Even the Staff of Magnus, which was currently propped up against the bookshelf, was something he only used when facing the aftershocks of the Eye.

Antario had also been the recipient of a past gift of Gylhain’s.

“It has served me well,” he said, holding the Akaviri blade in both hands. “But I admit I have, at times, been curious as to its origins.”

“Found it in a grotto,” said Gylhain, her mind reaching back for the details. “Somewhere near Falkreath. Think I was hunting werewolves. It belonged to one of the Blades, a man named Bolar.”

Antario’s thin eyebrows went up. “Acilius Bolar?” he asked. “Then this is the Oathblade of the last survivor of the siege on Cloud Ruler Temple. This sword was used to slay countless Thalmor, and has been in the hands of one who was aligned with them, but now hunts them. Fascinating. You continue to surprise me, Dovahkiin.”

Gylhain found herself smiling. It was nice to have her collection appreciated.

“You might want to consider some light armour instead of those robes,” she said, “if you always fight as close as I’ve seen you do.”

“These robes are significantly enchanted,” countered Antario, “and I do not believe I am experienced in the wearing of armour.”

Gylhain thought for a moment. “How about some leather gauntlets and boots?” she asked. “Won’t slow you down enough to make a difference, you can even enchant them here if you like.”

Antario found himself surprised again. “You have enchanting facilities within the house?”

Gylhain gestured with a thumb upstairs as she picked out the items she’d spoken of. “Spare room upstairs. Should be plenty of soul gems left over.”

Antario gathered his new items and restrained himself from taking the stairs two at a time.

Kara needed more convincing. Her furs were inadequate, as—Gylhain believed—was her steel greatsword, though she had carried it for a long time. But after reinforcing the seriousness of the power of the Dwemer constructions that dwelt in Blackreach, Kara conceded. Gylhain gave her a full set of orcish armour, hammering out the alterations herself. She added also a huge ebony greatsword, slightly curved with a large handle for a two-handed grip. Kara thanked Gylhain almost reluctantly, but was obviously keen to get into the open air and test her new gear.

Kureeth, already enamoured with his dragonscale armour, was still dead-set on continuing his unarmed combat style. Falin, too, refused a weapon—and here Dar’epha and Kara were able to find some common ground for rolling their eyes—but accepted the need for more defence. She was suitably impressed with what Gylhain had to offer her: the Shield of Ysgramor, its round surface rippled with ancient carvings, large enough for someone of Falin’s small build to completely duck behind.

“It’s enchanted against magic attacks,” added Gylhain.

Falin was pleased, pacing up and down the main room of Breezehome, wearing the shield on her right arm. “What does this make me?” she asked. “A shield-mage? Has anyone else thought of fighting like this?” She looked at Vash, deferring to the Archmage’s knowledge.

Vash shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever heard of. You might be the first.” That made Falin smile.

* * *

 

Evening fell and finally Dar’epha spoke up, broaching the topic several had been thinking of.

“How are we actually going to get down into Blackreach?” she asked.

Gylhain was unfazed. “The Tower of Mzark,” she said. “It’s something of a shortcut.”

She could sense the building unease of the others, who had never braved the depths of Blackreach.

“I know my way around down there,” she assured them. “As long as we stick together, it’ll be fine. We’ll just get in, have a quick look around to see what the Thalmor are up to, and get out.” She moved around the house, starting to prepare dinner.

“You should all stay here tonight, I think,” Gylhain went on. “You can’t go back to the inn,” she directed at Kara and Antario.

“We are all most grateful for your hospitality,” replied Antario, giving one of his short bows. “But does your house contain enough room for every one of us here?”

Gylhain gestured at each of them in turn. “Falin and Kureeth take the main bedroom upstairs, Kara takes the downstairs room, Antario has the room at the top of the stairs, Vash, Dar’epha and I set up some bedrolls out here. If you two are alright with that.”

Vash assured her that he was, and Dar’epha only gave a nonchalant shrug.

“All sorted. I might even have a hammock around here somewhere that we could hang.”

The Dragonborn busied herself with dinner, but Dar’epha, who had known her the longest, could see that she was not herself. The conversations, the actions, even their mission, all seemed to be a distraction for her; she did not seem as committed or driven as she once had. Dar’epha toyed with the idea of Gylhain losing interest in her adventures and found it a little too uncomfortable to consider.

* * *

 

They set out early, seeking to avoid any angry crowds. Gylhain had slept poorly, but she was used to that and managed to hide it from the others, with the possible exception of Dar’epha, who kept sending her concerned looks.

They armed and armoured themselves before leaving the house. The Dragonborn wore her usual ebony armour, with her scimitar on her left hip and her glass shield on her left arm. But strapped to her back were more weapons: a weighty dragonbone mace and a sword that shone luminously out of its scabbard. Falin frowned at this last weapon; despite its light exterior, she could sense dark forces at work within the blade.

Ri’saad was not pleased. “Have you forsaken this one’s employment?” he asked Falin as the group stood outside Whiterun.

“No, of course not,” said Falin. “We . . . we need to see this through. If you’ll have us when we come back, we’ll be there.”

“This one understands,” replied Ri’saad, “but wonders where guards will be found as proficient as you two.”

Gylhain hurled a pouch at the Khajiit. “For yesterday,” she said. “And if you’re heading out, go ask at Jorrvaskr. The new trainees up there could use the practice you’ll run into.”

Ri’saad hefted the pouch of gold with satisfaction, and trotted off towards the city again. The group of seven headed for the lift at the Tower of Mzark. Gylhain guided them north, along a road most of them were familiar with, into the Pale. There was little speaking, and eventually she guided them off that road to the north-west, directed them carefully around a giant camp, and led them up a snowy hill towards a small Dwemer tower sitting alone but for a pair of snowed-in tents.

The Dragonborn hurdled the small flight of stairs to a set of tall gates. She yanked them open and stood to one side, letting the others file into the small contained space.

“Blackreach may be full of terrible things,” she told them. “But it is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen with my own eyes.”

When they were all inside, arranged around the edge of the space, she closed the gates with a clang and reached up to a lever on the wall, pulling it forcefully so it pointed down. Dwemer lights around the edges of the room flickered on, and the lift started scraping downwards. The others looked around warily.

Vash tried to rationalise his misgivings away. “Dwemer constructions are the most solid in Tamriel,” he said. “They have operated flawlessly for almost four thousand years, they were architects and engineers without peer . . .”

He trailed off, unable to convince even himself. There was a long uneasy silence, broken only by the scraping of stone on stone as the lift descended, the noise becoming more and more jarring. After several tense minutes, there was a thump that made most of the group jump.

“See?” said Gylhain. “I’ve used this several times and never had any problems. We’re here.”

She led them up a dim tunnel to a pair of thick Dwemer doors, already open. Gylhain always left doors open in dungeons. They passed through, advancing between two huge Dwemer pipes onto a glass surface. The great domed ceiling contained a pentagon-shaped light source, illuminating the whole room. The glass floor upon which they stood extended in a circle around a layered mound of metal, which rose to meet the contraption that descended from the ceiling, all mirrors and green gems. The lowest gem sat in two pieces, an empty rack visible. All of the Dragonborn’s companions were speechless; many of them had seen Dwemer ruins before, taken refuge in them, delved into their secrets, but only close to the surface, never something like this . . .

“The Dwemer most certainly knew how to design a space,” breathed Antario. Gylhain walked slowly around to the right, reaching the top of a ramp that winded down beneath the glass to the rest of the Tower.

“Doesn’t seem to be anyone here,” she said. “I don’t think the Falmer know how to work the lifts.”

“Or maybe there’s something here that scares them,” offered Falin.

“I can understand that,” murmured Kara. Some mirrors hanging from the contraption reflected beams of light down to the floor, and she passed her armoured hand through one of them. Her face, uncovered by her half-helm, held only wonder.

“It’s pretty, Gyl, I’ll give ya that,” said Dar’epha.

Gylhain relaxed her stance a little. The tension of the lift evaporated from Vash as he approached the empty rack.

“That’s where I found the Elder Scroll,” said Gylhain, losing interest. She’d seen it before. She’d seen it all before. There wasn’t a place left in Skyrim she’d hadn’t seen. Now she just wanted to find the Thalmor and get out.

“Extraordinary,” whispered Vash, running his fingers along the empty rack. Kureeth murmured something to Falin. Kara waved her fingers through the ray of light again. But Dar’epha watched Gylhain and read her feelings in her pose.

“Come on,” she announced on the Dragonborn’s behalf. “Can’t stand round here glazy-eyed all day, can we? Got a job to do!” She set off down the ramp with Gylhain. Gradually, reluctantly, the others followed.

Going beneath the glass, down the ramp and onto the stone, it was revealed that the Dwemer dome was not a dome at all, but a giant sphere. Continuing around, they came to a doorway, and Gylhain led them into a room containing a long-cold campfire and a single bedroll. Beyond lay another lift.

Kureeth made a grunt that could have been dismay.

“Deeper?” asked Falin. “Just how far down is this place?”

“Long way,” said Gylhain in a low voice. “Longer ride this time, too.”

There were several sighs from among the group. The pattern repeated: the group filed in while Gylhain stood back. But when she pulled the lever there was a delay before the lights flickered on, and the scrapings seemed more uncertain. There was a crack, followed by another. Gylhain put her helmet on, Kureeth and Kara following her example without knowing why. The scraping downward movement began to slow and shudder.

“Never had any trouble with this one either, huh?” asked Dar’epha.

“Not yet,” said Gylhain.

There was a final, louder crack, and the lift stopped. Then the lights went out.

In the pitch black, already far beneath the surface, there was a long silence, a small twist of metal drawing along metal, and then the lift went into freefall.


	35. Stay Inside the Circle

Perhaps to their credit, none of the group screamed as the lift fell. There really wasn’t any time to do so. Vash was the first to take action. He cast telekinesis, stretched his arms out, and hoped to slow the fall before they hit the bottom. If there was a bottom. He strained, gritting his teeth, feeling the weight of the lift against the strength of his magic. He felt his magicka draining at an alarming rate, but could also sense that the lift was slowing.

Antario sent out a small bulb of light, allowing the group to see each other once again. The mage’s eyes widened when he saw what Vash was trying to do.

“A little help?” the orc breathed between his teeth. He felt his burden lessen as Antario and Falin added their spells to his. Finally, the lift creaked to a halt. There was an audible sigh of relief.

“Everyone alright?” asked Gylhain. She glanced around in the dimness at her companions. Miraculously, everyone seemed to be, other than some frayed nerves. “How long can you hold that?” she asked Vash.

The three mages stood with their legs pressed firm, glowing orange energies escaping from their palms. “A while,” answered Vash. “With the three of us there’s enough time to recharge, if we need it.” He looked at the other two, trying to gauge the strain in their faces, wondering at the depths of their magicka pools.

“We didn’t pass the door into Blackreach,” said Gylhain, looking back up the lift shaft.

“You sure?” asked Dar’epha. “We was fallin pretty fast there.”

“I’m sure. We would have seen the lights.” She turned to each of the mages in turn. “Can you let us down slowly? First place to get out, we’ll do it.”

Vash nodded at Antario and Falin, and together they relaxed their hold the smallest of amounts. Gradually, the lift began to descend, at a pace slower than its usual rate. The companions looked around nervously at each other—with the exception of the Dragonborn, who displayed no visible signs of distress whatsoever.

It was a tense descent, silent except for the scrape of stone on stone. Minutes seemed to become hours. Eventually, an opening began to appear, growing wider as the descending lift revealed more of it. Gylhain was the closest to it.

“When it gets big enough to fit through, stop,” she said to the mages. They nodded, and as the gap become high enough for someone to crouch through, they halted the lift.

“Alright!” announced Gylhain. “Non-mages, out, out! Watch for the drop,” she added. Dar’epha was first, going into a dive-roll. The drop was just over the height of a tall figure, but she handled it expertly, landing on her feet. She turned back and helped Kara down, who had gone next. She landed with a heavy thump, her armour clanking.

“Thanks,” she said to the Khajiit.

Kureeth lingered, not wanting to leave Falin.

“Go,” his wife instructed him, her face straining with the effort of holding up the lift. “I’ll be fine.” He went, rejecting Dar’epha’s offer of help, landing on his feet with almost as much precision as she had. Years of bare-knuckle fighting had granted him expert balance. His tail swished nervously as the three outside the lift looked up at the gap to the four inside.

“Gylhain, you next,” said Vash. The Dragonborn nodded and descended. Vash looked at his two remaining companions. “Falin, go,” he said. “We’ll pick up the slack.” He began to sweat. Falin nodded, gradually releasing her hold on the lift. It slipped slowly for half a metre until Vash and Antario extended their mental reach. Falin dropped easily through the widened gap.

Antario was next. “Are you entirely sure you can hold this long enough to escape?” asked the Altmer. “I am happy to be the last inside if you do not wish to be.”

“Go gradually,” breathed Vash, ignoring Antario’s offer. He did so, and the lift eased further down, revealing the full opening with its thick stone arch, allowing him to merely step out. Vash’s teeth ground together, the full burden of the lift’s weight upon his magic. Even with all the enchantments upon his robes and years of practice, he could feel his time running out.

Then, he smiled at the others, who were looking at him worryingly. He transferred the entire telekinesis spell to his left hand, the pressure almost bringing him to his knees. With his right hand he cast a small levitation spell, enough to let him hover. Then he let the telekinesis go.

The lift dropped out from beneath him. Vash was left hovering lightly in the empty shaft.

“You bastard,” said Dar’epha. “For a second I was sure you were gonna go down with it.”

Vash looked down, the lift platform disappearing into darkness. There was a flash of light, and Vash could make out another entrance. “There’s another tunnel down there,” he said.

“Deeper than Blackreach?” asked Falin between breaths, in disbelief.

“Full of Falmer, I’m sure,” said Gylhain. “Now get onto solid ground like the rest of us.” The Archmage floated gently over, his feet lighting on the stone. Immediately he collapsed, supported by Gylhain and Antario. They lowered him gently down, leaning him back against the wall.

“Your reserves are almost beyond my comprehension,” said Antario. “But even you require rest and recuperation. As do I and Falin, I think.”

Gylhain shrugged. “No rush. We got where we were trying to go.”

They looked around for the first time. On the thin stone bridge outside the tower, they stared, full of wonder. They peered up at the glowing tendrils that stretched down from the top of the enormous cavern, at the tree-sized glowing mushrooms that loomed in clumps around the misty river, at the city with its glowing orange sphere hovering above. At the Dwemer machines and Falmer that swarmed along the paths, engaged in bitter conflict, centuries of hatred at play.

“It appears we have been lured into a war,” said Antario.

“You think the Thalmor destroyed the lift?” asked Falin. “Sabotaged it? Did you know?”

“If I had known in advance, I would not have entered it.”

“Dwemer constructions don’t just fail suddenly like that,” said Vash, rising.

“We’re trapped through, ain’t we?” asked Kara.

“No,” said Gylhain, cutting across their jabbering. “There’s plenty of other ways out. Other lifts, longer through ruins if we have to. We’re not trapped. Although we are going to have to fight our way through that pack. I doubt there are any Thalmor here at all.”

“I assume they hoped the sheer numbers would overwhelm us,” said Antario, “if their ploy with the lift failed.”

“That’s not going to happen,” spat Gylhain. Dar’epha grinned. The Dragonborn functioned best in the face of seemingly unbeatable odds. She turned to address her companions, who were drawing their weapons. She did the same, using her scimitar as a pointer.

“We have to get out of here,” she said, her voice laced with barely restrained violence. “The closest way is the Great Lift of Mzinchaleft. Follow the path down to the junction, then left up the hill. You’ll pass under an arch. The lift is on the left, shortly after that. I am telling you this in case we get separated. Do not attempt to engage the enemy unless they engage you first! The Dwemer machines and the Falmer will kill each other over us. Use this to your advantage. Our priority is to get out of here, not heap ourselves in the glory of victory. Understood?”

The group nodded, trying to ready themselves for the battle ahead.

“I can create a protective circle, if that helps,” proposed Falin.

“Do so,” said Gylhain. “Everyone else, stay inside the circle, unless absolutely necessary.”

Falin cast her spell, creating a wide glowing circle on the ground, some four metres across. Gylhain continued with her instructions, her voice getting louder to the point where Dar’epha become concerned the Falmer would single them out before she was done.

“The fight at Labyrinthian was a shambles!” she bellowed. “Here, we work as a team! Kureeth, stay with Falin. Protect her, you protect the circle. Dar’epha, stay on your bow, support anyone who needs it. Antario, Vash, I would prefer you to work from a distance, but you get up close with something, deal with it. And give us any extra protection spells you can manage. Kara, defend our rear. I’ll take the vanguard.”

The Dragonborn scanned her companions. “Move!” she yelled, hurdling the stairs down to the ground, engaging the pack of Falmer that had spotted them and advanced on their position.

Her scimitar took one in the throat and sliced another’s belly open. Two arrows and several lightning bolts from behind her took care of the rest. The circle caught up with her and she felt its energies seep through her muscles; Falin had filled it with restorative magics. Slowly the circle moved towards where one path met the other, where the main fight was taking place.

“Archers on the walls!” yelled Dar’epha. Gylhain looked up and there they were: a line of Falmer, launching arrows from their position.

“I got them,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she reached for her Thu’um. “ _Fus-Ro-Dah!”_ she yelled. The force slammed into the line of archers, sending them flying off the walls back into the courtyard of the city. The dregs of her Voice reached the orange globe that hung over the city, causing it to shimmer lightly, but the Dragonborn ignored it, disregarding her own advice and launching herself once more into the fight.

She was quickly lost among the masses. Her scimitar swung widely, taking out Falmer and Dwemer construction indiscriminately. Soon her armour was slick with blood, none of it her own. She used her shield as a weapon too, bashing it into faces and using its sharp edges to dig into flesh. She stomped on a Dwemer spider, then barrelled into a Sphere, knocking it back and severing its joints with short slashes.

* * *

 

Falin moved the circle forward, reaching the centre and heading up to the left. She added a second enhancement, making the circle sap the energies of enemies who breached its perimeter. Sadly, it had no effect on the Dwemer machines. She raised her shield to block a stray arrow and looked across at Kureeth, who was tearing the legs off a Dwemer spider.

* * *

 

Dar’epha strode on Falin’s right, sending arrows wherever they were needed. The Falmer were easy, an arrow anywhere in them would be a help, but the Dwemer constructs proved more of a challenge to her skills. Her projectiles needed to land in just the right place to sever connections, to cripple them so one of the others could finish them off. A Falmer, its blind face filled with rage, got too close. Before she could act, the foe dropped to the ground, paralysed by one of Falin’s spells. Dar’epha lunged forward and sunk a dagger in its chest to finish it off. She rose to offer thanks for the help, but the wood elf’s attention was already elsewhere, sending a ray of rejuvenation towards Kara.

* * *

 

Kara was glad she’d given in to Gylhain’s offer of new sword and armour. Without it, she would have already died a dozen times over. Her new ebony greatsword was heavy, but it was that weight that let her cleave through the thick metal that protected the Dwemer machines. Her orcish armour protected her from the worst of their blows as she struck at them again and again with little concern for her own safety. But she never let any of them breach the circle to attack the others from behind.

However, it was clear she was out of her depth, surviving only through the help of her allies. Frequently a machine would knock her back, or a Falmer would lunge past her guard, or her aching muscles would threaten to fail her. It was then that an arrow would hit her foe, or a bolt of lightning, or a spike of ice. Or a rush of energy would flood her limbs. She’d scramble back up and finish the enemy off, wishing there was time to throw a smile in the way of her companions. But that’s what they were there for, she realised, to help each other without being asked. Any of them on their own would have been overwhelmed, but together they could stand their ground, complement each other’s skills. Fight side by side and back to back.

* * *

 

The circle passed between glowing blue rocks and a huge glowing mushroom as Antario launched another lightning bolt. They were his preferred form of offensive magic, and could be chained to have devastating effects on both varieties of enemy that they faced. His Oathblade was also proving most useful, carving right through any Falmer that got too close. His robes swung to the side as he dodged an arrow with ease, but the next one sank deep into his left shoulder. He was about to cast a protective spell over his flesh, when one washed over him from behind. No time to remove the arrow now. Again he prepared a spell—of the healing variety—only to have it pre-empted again.

Vash and Falin keeping an eye on him, no doubt. This was the not the sort of battle he had been trained for. The Thalmor preferred to work in the shadows, striking without warning, turning friends against each other, coming in later to wipe up the remains. But he was Thalmor no longer, he remembered. And he was holding his own. He encased his blade in fire and combined it with blasts of ice to slow his foes; it was a mixture he wished he’d hit upon earlier.

* * *

 

Vash was a battlemage, her realised. It was an area in which he excelled. His deep magicka reserves let him have multiple spells on the go, especially when reinforced by Falin’s protective circle. His flesh hardened to the strength of ebony, he wielded a bound axe in his right hand, and launched a mix of fireballs and icy spears from his left. With a wave he summoned a fire atronach in the midst of a pack of advancing Falmer. It was torn down quickly, exploding upon its death with a fiery blast that took out the entire pack. This was the situation his magic skills belonged in, adapting and modifying a plethora of offensive and defensive spells on the fly, to inflict catastrophic harm on his many foes.

And protect his friends, he remember, scanning the others to see where hard flesh or healing could be needed, distributing the spells as required. The circle advanced, nearing a long bend in the path. The stone arch Gylhain had mentioned was within sight. Several loud thumps caught Vash’s attention. Was that a—?

“Centurion!” he yelled.

* * *

 

Gylhain’s head snapped up at the cry and she saw the lumbering metal monster approaching the circle from the front. She broke off her fight with a Chaurus by splitting its skull with her scimitar. By this time, the circle of companions was rounding a corner with another large glowing blue rock to the right. The centurion was emerging from a lower path to the left. It raised its left arm and let loose a blast of high-pressured steam in their direction. The others rolled out of the way, but Falin could not do the same without the circle falling apart. She dropped to one knee and brought her shield up in front of her, and the attack cascaded off it.

Gylhain was running. She tossed her scimitar to Vash, who dispelled his bound axe in time to catch it and carve a Falmer’s head open, sending a fireball at an approaching Dwemer Sphere at the same time. Gylhain drew her heavy dragonbone mace and charged the Centurion. She found that Kureeth was alongside her.

“Cripple the legs!” she yelled. They both rolled, the Argonian to the left, the Breton to the right, out of the way of the Centurion’s incoming axe blow. Gylhain smashed her mace into the back of the machine’s left knee joint, Kureeth doing the same with his powerful foot on the right. The construct let out a hiss of steam that went high over the whole party, and crumpled to its knees.

Kureeth stuck his hands into the joints of the Centurion’s right arm and pulled, wrenching pieces out of place, stepping back to smash into it with his foot. The arm soon hung by a single twisted piece of metal, which he severed with a final kick.

Gylhain went round to face the machine head on, slamming her mace into its ‘face’ and torso again and again until the ridges on her weapon were dulled. He wrenched it free and moved back as the Centurion collapsed.

The circle passed the body of the construct, rejoining Kureeth and Gylhain, flooding their bodies with energy. The healing waves flowed through Gylhain, alleviating the many pains that came from such a long fight. The worst of the battle was behind them now, Kara dealing with the dregs that got too close, with Dar’epha and the mages launching projectiles into them.

Then, there was an almighty roar, a roar that Gylhain was all too familiar with. It was familiar to all who lived in Skyrim through those years of blood and fire. They thought they’d heard the last of it, but there it was: a dragon, circling the city, likely brought out by the sound of the Dragonborn’s Voice. It rained down fire, eliminating great swathes of the battle with the immense heat of its breath. The dragon landed, just to the rear of the circle.

“Run!” yelled Gylhain. She did the opposite. This was the enemy they told her she’d been born to fight. She dropped her shield, shifted her mace to her left hand, and drew Dawnbreaker from its sheath. The blade shone as bright as its namesake as she rushed the dragon, rolling to the right as it launched another great gout of fire.

Behind her, all of the mages summoned simultaneous wards. They shook under the assault, but held. With her mace Gylhain slammed into the dragon’s left front leg, then ran Dawnbreaker down the beast’s side. It let out a great bellow of pain and swung round its long neck to snap at her with huge teeth.

Projectiles began to land in it: arrows and long spikes of ice. Gylhain’s companions had not deserted her. She slashed her sword across its snout and saw Kara rush in to hack at its right front leg. Kureeth was tearing at its right wing, pulling great holes in the membrane with his fists.

The dragon roared again, belching fire. Gylhain swung to her right, her back up against the side of the dragon. She flipped Dawnbreaker’s grip in her hand and drove it into the side of the monster. Kara hacked at its neck and an arrow found its right eye. With her sword stuck, Gylhain raised her mace in both hands and drove it into the dragon’s skull. Its roar became weaker, then cut off abruptly as the weapon breached into the brain.

For the first time in years, the Dragonborn had slain a dragon. She retrieved her weapons and shield, then herded her companions back towards the lift. The dragon’s body disintegrated and the light of its soul enveloped Gylhain for a brief moment.

More Falmer and Dwemer mechanisms were on their way. Falin did not dispel the circle until they were all in the lift and Kureeth had yanked the lever. There was a shudder, and the lift rose smoothly. The companions collapsed around the edges of the space, exhausted from their ordeal. They had survived Blackreach.


	36. Tales of Past Lives

The seven companions couldn’t get out of the lift fast enough. They were further north than where they’d descended, and it was snowing, the drifts piled high around them. Apart from the jutting tower that contained the lift, there were no structures in sight; just snow, trees, and more snow. They stood around up to their knees in the white groundcover, savouring the taste of fresh air.

“I don’t suppose you know where we are?” asked Falin.

Gylhain took off her helmet and tucked it under her left arm. Flakes of snow landed in her dark brown hair. She scratched at her chin.

“We’re not far from Fort Dunstad,” she said. “We could rest up there. I can still pull rank with the Legion if I have to.”

Kara and Kureeth removed their helmets as well. Dar’epha pulled up the hood of her Guild armour to stop snow getting in her fur. She rubbed her scars and peered through the falling snow for signs of danger. Vash still had Gylhain’s scimitar in his hands, though there had been ample time on the ride up to return it. They’d spent most of the time tending to minor wounds and struggling against exhaustion.

“Isn’t the Hall of the Vigilant closer?” asked Vash, also familiar with the area. “I’m sure they’d take us in.”

Falin added her support to the idea. “Sure, they always take in travellers who need shelter, which we will if this snowstorm picks up,” she said.

“It will,” grunted Kureeth. His tail made an arc in the snow with its gentle swishing.

“No,” said Gylhain. “The Vigilants and I don’t see eye to eye.” She started to move off through the snow, around to the left behind the lift and between some trees, heading to the south-east. The others stomped after her. As they passed a rocky outcrop jutting from the snow on their right, Falin called out to Gylhain.

“Is that because of the demonic sword on your back?” she asked, raising her voice. The Dragonborn stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “I’m not a fool,” Falin went on. “All of us mages can sense it.”

Gylhain looked tired beyond comprehension, her eyes hooded and drooping, her shoulders hunched against the cold. The others weren’t much better.

“You really want to talk about this now?” she asked, throwing her free arm wide. “We’re going to freeze out here if we don’t keep moving.”

“Yeah, I do,” continued Falin. “Because you’re carrying around gear with history, gear that could only have come straight from the same daedra that almost killed me and Kureeth.”

“She is correct,” agreed Antario. “That glowing sword is known to the Thalmor. It is Dawnbreaker, granted throughout the ages to the servants of Meridia. You are carrying a dangerous artefact, Dovahkiin.”

Gylhain squashed her eyes closed. When she opened them she found Falin and Antario still staring at her expectantly, now joined by Kara. Kureeth’s face could not be read, Vash didn’t care, and Dar’epha served Nocturnal herself, albeit circumspectly. At least she wasn’t entirely alone.

“Fine,” said Gylhain, stepping through the deepening snow back towards them. “After I was named Dragonborn, I went adventure-crazy. If there was something to be done, I did it. This included deals with most of the Daedric Princes.” Kara looked to be about to say something at this point, but Gylhain pushed ahead. “I knew what I was getting into. I did things for them—bad things, mostly—and they gave me weapons and armour far beyond what even the best smiths in Skyrim can do. I convinced myself I was holding onto them so that nobody else could use them for evil, but that wasn’t enough. I scattered them soon after . . . soon after I married. Some are buried deep in the ground, some are at the bottom of the sea. Nobody will use them now.”

Falin seemed somewhat assured by the tale. “But why do you still have that sword?” she asked.

Gylhain shrugged. “Meridia hates undead, I kill a lot of undead. Dawnbreaker is good for killing undead. No disagreements there.”

“But your collection’s huge,” said Kara. “You must have other things in there just as good.”

“Arguably,” said Gylhain. “The point is, those days are in the past. I don’t deal with Daedra anymore. The Vigilants, on the other hand, would rather punish me for my past crimes than let me get on with the demon-slaying in atonement.”

“Good,” said Dar’epha. “Argument sorted. Now can we please get movin to the Fort? I can feel icicles formin on my whiskers.”

Falin managed a smile at that, and the group began moving again through the snow.

* * *

 

They had to skirt another giant’s camp on the way to the Fort. Red Road Pass, Gylhain called it. Its huge fire looked inviting through the trees, no doubt radiating fierce heat, but she guided them around it at a safe distance. The huge shadow of a mammoth loomed in front of the fire, blocking the light, and they moved on.

They avoided the Hall of the Vigilant too, coming within sight of it as they rejoined what passed for a road in those parts of Skyrim. Falin looked longingly towards its thick walls and spurting chimney, but said nothing.

Eventually they crested a hill and there it was: Fort Dunstad, an outpost of the Imperial Legion. Its black stone rose defiantly out of the snow, daring the elements to try and bring it down. Gylhain hailed a soldier on the battlements, and the gate was open for them when they rounded the walls to reach it. A single officer stood in the way, a thick fur cloak wrapped over his Legion armour.

“Legate!” hailed the officer, perhaps not as surprised as he could have been at seeing the Dragonborn at the head of such a motley band, exhausted and bloodstained. “What can I do for you?”

“At ease, Prefect,” said Gylhain, who suddenly seemed to stand taller and straighter in the snow. “We were looking for shelter against the cold, and hoped you could aid us.” She peered through the falling snow, thicker now. “Lucred, is that you?”

Dar’epha had long ceased to be surprised at the breadth of people known to Gylhain. No doubt this Prefect Lucred was an old war comrade of the Dragonborn’s. The two friends broke with formality and grasped wrists.

Lucred grinned. “Stands to reason you’d finally show up in a storm like this,” he said. He was unshaven and weary, but still in full command of his senses.

Gylhain shrugged it off. “We had a spot of bother to deal with down in Blackreach,” she said. Several of her companions scoffed; an understatement if there ever was one. Lucred’s eyes went wide. “I’ll come by after it’s dealt with,” Gylhain assured him. “Tell you the whole tale.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” said Lucred. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “You and your friends are welcome to the old inn. It’s a little bare, but comfortable enough.” He gestured to his right, and Gylhain led her companions in that direction. She grasped wrists with Lucred again, and told him to get back inside the Fort, out of the howling wind that was building.

* * *

 

The name of the inn had been The Stumbling Sabrecat, and it was as bare as Lucred had claimed. But it served well enough for their purposes. A single bed rested in a corner, two small circular tables with six chairs between them nestled close to a cold hearth. Above hung the stuffed head of a sabrecat with the neck of a wine bottle stuck between its teeth, the namesake of the inn. The bar was bare but for a few empty tankards.

Gylhain dropped her helmet on the bar and stamped off the snow. Quickly and expertly she removed her armour and weapons. Kara and Kureeth again followed her example, albeit slower. Gylhain moved towards the basement stairs.

“Vash, get that fire started,” she said. “I’ll find us some more wood.” She vanished down the stairs. Vash knelt in front of the hearth and piled what little wood remained there into a small pile, lighting it with a tiny flame spell. Dar’epha hurdled the bar and set about finding them all tankards and drinks.

Kureeth, his armour removed, pulled the two tables together nearer the fire and arranged the chairs around them in a loose circle. Falin collapsed in the rightmost chair nearest the fire, pulling off her boots and sighing deeply. Kureeth joined her, then Antario. Kara was next, leaving her armour in a pile and stretching out next to her friend. She pulled a rag from a pocket and set to cleaning her new sword of Falmer blood.

The fire under control, Vash rose and saw there would not be enough seats when Gylhain returned. He pulled a stool over from the bar and positioned it near the left of the fire, seating himself there. Unable to find a poker, he rose and unhooked the rusted iron greatsword that hung above the hearth, using that instead to jostle the logs. Dar’epha was next, dumping enough tankards for everyone on the tables, then bringing over two bottles of wine and four of mead. She seated herself next to Vash.

Eventually, Gylhain emerged from the basement, carrying an immense armful of wood. She dropped it in the gap between Vash and the hearth, then took the last remaining seat, between Dar’epha and Kara. At length, everyone poured themselves drinks. Wine for Gylhain, Vash, and Falin; mead for everyone else. There was restful silence for a time.

“Did anyone see when I crippled that Sphere in one shot?” asked Dar’epha, with forced nonchalance.

“No,” replied Kara, grinning, “but I did see Kureeth rip the arm off that Centurion.”

“Shit,” said Dar’epha, “I dunno how I coulda missed that one.” A smile spread across Kureeth’s face.

“I still say there’s nothing like an exploding atronach,” said Vash.

“Indeed,” said Antario. “A classic manoeuvre, perfectly executed.”

“Did you see me jump off a mushroom and ride that Centurion into a pack of Falmer?” asked Falin.

A small frown appeared on Kara’s face. “I . . . I don’t think that happened,” she said.

Dar’epha laughed. “Nah, but she had ya goin there for a bit.”

Gylhain sat back and listened to her companions swap tales. She had mostly long outgrown the need to do so herself. Many of them were not tales she wanted to relive—besides, a great deal of them bordered on the unbelievable. Yet her smile grew as those of the others did, the tales becoming taller, Dar’epha leading the way in that respect.

The bitter winds lashed against the walls of the old inn, but the mismatched group was safe and warm inside, finally comfortable in one another’s company. Finally, after keeping silent through a blow-by-blow account of one of Dar’epha’s more daring heists—although all of them were daring, to have her tell it—Gylhain cut in.

“We escaped the Thalmor’s trap, but they’re not finished. What’s our next move?”

“Did not your Jarl report daedric attacks?” asked Antario. “I would not disregard the Thalmor from being responsible for such things. It may be worth investigating.”

Vash nodded. “South, the Jarl said. Around Riverwood, down into Falkreath.”

Falin agreed. “That’s near where we were attacked,” she said. “There’s definitely something going on down there. Perhaps we could ask the people of Riverwood? They might know something. Or we could scout the countryside; we could cover a lot of ground between us. Although the Jarl said his guards turned up nothing.”

Dar’epha snorted. “All courtesy to Balgruuf, of course,” she said, “but his guards are useless.”

Kara gave a single note of laughter. Gylhain rose and stretched. She went over to the door and opened it an arm’s length. Snow spilled into the inn, soaking her feet. “We’re going to be stuck here for a while yet,” she said.

“Come sit down,” urged Dar’epha. “Tell ’em how you met Azura.”

Gylhain shouldered the door shut and resumed her seat. “It is a good tale,” she admitted. She looked uncertainly at Falin; the tale did involve a deal with a Daedra, after all.

“It’s fine,” said Falin. “All of us have done things we’re not proud of.”

“Not me,” scoffed Dar’epha. “I’m proud of everythin.”

“Alright then,” said the Dragonborn with a smile, and she launched into the tale.

“ _There was a snowstorm blowing even fiercer than this when I climbed the narrow steps up to Azura’s shrine. I had learned of it from a Dunmer named Faldrus, who said he was on a pilgrimage. But as I reached the top, it became obvious his journey had ended in tragedy . . .”_


	37. Scouting Trips

They spent the rest of the day and following night in the Stumbling Sabrecat. The blizzard refused to let up into the early hours of the morning. It beat at the roof and thumped at the door, but the companions slept warmly. When the snows were silent, Lucred waded through to apologise for his lack of hospitality, with an appeasement that included breakfast.

Gylhain thanked him, and promised to commend the Prefect to Legate Rikke the next time she saw her. Lucred’s smile almost split his face in two. He shook Gylhain’s hand fiercely, military decorum forgotten, and wished them all the best.

* * *

 

They turned south where the roads met and left the Pale and its snows behind them. Once again on the fields of Whiterun, they passed the city itself by and headed up the winding path towards Riverwood. The morning sun shone down on their journey, and they were not troubled along their way. Soon enough, they came to the quiet town of Riverwood and Gylhain led them to the Sleeping Giant Inn.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said. She headed to the bar to talk to Orgnar, the barkeep and owner.

“Is it just me?” asked Falin, as the group filled up both sides of a bench, “or does she know everybody in Skyrim?”

Dar’epha smiled. “Far as I can figure out, there ain’t a soul left she hasn’t had an effect on.”

Gylhain returned to them after a few minutes and stood at the head of the table, her brow furrowed.

“Orgnar says there’s been a bunch of attacks, mostly at night,” she said. “Embry was out drunk a week ago. They found him the next morning burned and missing his head.”

“Did you know him?” asked Kara. They all guessed the answer.

“Yeah. He was a drunk and a grouch, but could tell a good tale once you got some mead into him.” Another dead comrade, she thought. Too many gone, too many dead for nothing.

“Do they not have guards in this village?” asked Antario.

“Sure,” said Gylhain. “Three of them. At night there’s only one on patrol, they can hardly be expected to deal with something like this.”

“Should we scout around?” asked Falin, repeating her earlier suggestion. “See if we can find something outside the town?”

“Sure,” repeated Gylhain. “Split into pairs, we can cover more ground that way.” She scanned the group. One mage per pair seemed like a prudent move. Put everyone with who they were the most comfortable. Except for the obvious problem.

“I’ll go alone,” said Dar’epha, peremptorily. She smirked. “I can cover more ground without any of you lot slowin me down.” She was out the door before Gylhain could ever direct her to a specific area. Ah well, she thought. If anyone was going to find anything, it would be the thief. She turned back to the others.

“Falin, Kureeth. Head back downriver, but stay on this side. Antario, Kara, stay on this side too, but head upriver. Avoid the mine, we don’t have time to deal with the bandits if they’ve settled in there again. Vash and I will cross at the bridge and go upriver on the other side. Alright?”

There was a chorus of nods. They set out, leaving the inn for the green countryside that bordered the seemingly idyllic town.

* * *

 

After seeing Vash and Gylhain off at the bridge north of Riverwood, Falin and Kureeth kept heading northwards. They went along the east bank of the river, skirting around jutting stones, just avoiding getting their feet wet. There were multiple ledges, and Kureeth always held out a helping hand to his wife if she needed it. It was still sunny, and Falin found she was enjoying herself, despite the seriousness of their quest.

They came across the remnants of a fallen tree. It stuck out over the water, pointed towards the falls that would take the flowing water past Whiterun. Falin strode confidently to the end of the branch, her arms held wide for extra balance. Kureeth kept on the ground, ready to catch her if she fell. She could see nothing out of the ordinary, did a neat pirouette on the trunk, and descended.

They skirted a mossy tree, Falin running her fingers along its downy surface. A dead branch lay at the water’s edge, which Kureeth hefted up and into the river. Another tree, this time covered in mushrooms. Falin paused to gently break some off the trunk and drop them into a pouch at her belt.

“ _Mora Tapinella,_ ” she called them. “Good for boosting your magicka in a fix.” Kureeth only nodded and smiled. Falin’s alchemical knowledge had been improving ever since they arrived in Skyrim.

Their path widened, then narrowed again as they reached the falls. Ducking past a bulging rock, they emerged onto an outcrop that served as a perfect vantage point to look out over the plains of Whiterun. The first waterfall was to their left, the second further downstream to their right. Whiterun itself was clearly visible, Dragonsreach standing tall over its city. Falin turned around, her eyes scanning the surrounding slopes.

“I guess this is as far as we can go,” she said. “Those look too steep to climb.”

Kureeth scoffed and gave it a go. He soon slid down the grass, all four limbs scrambling for grip. His wife laughed lightly at him. Her face dropped for a moment.

“We’re out of our depth, aren’t we?” she asked. “I almost died in Blackreach so many times I lost count. Gylhain, Vash, even Dar’epha, they’re good at this sort of thing. We’re not like them.”

Kureeth shrugged. “Do you want to be?” he asked.

Falin thought that one over. “I . . . I don’t think so, no. I’d like to learn more magic, but I don’t want to kill with it. I don’t want that life.” She stopped, staring out at the river. “Do you?”

Kureeth shook his head.

“But you want to see this through, right?”

Kureeth nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “Although I don’t doubt Gylhain could do it without our help. Remember what I said about Winterhold?”

Kureeth nodded again. Of course he remembered.

“Then that’s where we’ll go, after this is over.” She smiled at him. “We can build a home, finally. I’ll enrol in the College, there’s a lot I could learn there.”

Kureeth stretched his arms out over his head, his fingers interlocked. He brought them down again with a yawn.

“Come on,” said Falin. “Let’s get back to the inn.”

* * *

 

Kara and Antario followed the road south of Riverwood along the river, leaving it as soon as they could. There was a gap in the hill to the left of the path, and they strolled up it. Kara took the lead, her hand always ready to reach for her weapon. She’d spent a great deal of time in Skyrim’s wilderness, living off the land, avoiding its dangers both natural and unnatural. Antario, on the other hand, had spent most of his life within cities, and was more than happy to let her be in front. Kara’s eyes scanned the surrounds, taking their mission with the utmost seriousness.

The ledge they were on spanned the gap between the steep cliffs that were the Throat of the World, and the path besides the White River. The foliage was all a vibrant green, birds sung in the trees, and Kara felt her guard relaxing. They passed a vein of iron ore sprouting from the earth, and moved on gently through the swaying grass and between the trees. The slope steepened, and their view ahead was blocked by a huge tree. Holding aside its branches, Kara and Antario stepped into a clearing to find the mine entrance Gylhain had told them to avoid.

An empty cart and a small pile of lumber edged the open space. But it was the hound that caused Kara to come to attention. The beast was larger than any dog she had ever seen, and was black as the darkest night, with slavering jaws. It had been feasting on a human body, its teeth rending through flesh, the blood soaking into the soil. At the sight of them, it looked at them with ferocious red eyes.

With no time to draw her sword, Kara grabbed the empty cart and hurled it at the beast. In the same moment, Antario cast a bolt of flame, which turned the cart into a flaming cart. The resulting blow knocked the hound across the clearing. It came up howling with pain and shook the pieces of smoking wood from its fur.

Kara drew her sword, the heavy blade sweeping through the air as the beast charged. She moved to the side and the blade came down, biting into the hound’s side. Antario finished it off with a shock spell.

“Guess that proves there’s demons round here,” said Kara.

“It would seem that way,” said Antario. “But I would prefer that we have a further look around before returning to the others. I doubt one hound is the extent of the Thalmor’s plans.”

“We cut out for anything bigger?”

Antario frowned. “I am not sure what you mean,” he said. “We are both perfectly competent fighters. Need I remind you of how well you dispatched the Thalmor agents that attacked us in Windhelm? You handled yourself remarkably well.”

“Sure,” said Kara, unsure and unused to compliments. “But this? More than I can handle.” She climbed up the hill on the other side of the clearing, keeping her sword drawn. Antario followed her, drawing his own blade.

“You handled that hound very well,” persisted Antario, internally cursing his own formal manner. “And you will not be alone. We number seven, all of us skilled in our own fighting styles.” They crested the hill and rejoined the path, which had risen and twisted up the slope. The two trod down the short distance to the Guardian Stones, the three monuments that stood proud amidst a stone base tangled with roots and vines.

“You’re probably right,” admitted Kara. “Just wish I was better, y’know? I told you I fought the Dragonborn once, right?”

Antario nodded. “I remember the tale most clearly.”

“She coulda taken me apart,” she said. “She was toying with me. S’like she’s on some whole other level of fighting, above humans. And mer,” she added.

Antario could not help but agree, especially after seeing Gylhain in action in Blackreach. He cleared his throat, cancelling Kara’s pensive gazing out over Lake Ilinalta.

“We should return,” he said. “We have something to report, and can return with fuller force.”

Kara sighed. “Alright,” she said.

* * *

 

Gylhain and Vash stepped off the path almost as soon as they crossed the bridge, heading upriver on the west side. Gylhain led the way, as she knew the area as well as she knew every area in Skyrim. They stepped around a tree stump marked with the strikes of a woodcutter’s axe, and took a long leaping stride together over a little stream that emerged from a gap in the rocky mountainside to their right.

Further on, past more jagged tree stumps, a huge elk reared up before them, its thick fur matted with riverwater. It shook its head furiously, its antlers whirling with the movement, water flying in every direction. That done, it moved past them at a distance close enough that Vash could have reached out and touched the animal.

Gylhain smiled at his amazement and they continued on.

Their path narrowed significantly after that. To avoid soaking their feet, they were forced to hurdle a fallen tree trunk and push through a bush, Gylhain holding the branches back for her friend. Then the way widened again, a huge hollow fallen tree imposing itself on the space. Gylhain strode towards the hollow itself.

“Bandits sometimes use this as a stash,” Gylhain said. She wandered into the dark hole, its natural ceiling high enough that she had no need to duck. She tore aside loose branches and uncovered a chest. Wrenching open the lid, she pulled out a pouch of gold and a shiny emerald. She shrugged and pocketed both finds.

They moved on, down the green slope and up the next. A hooded figure in red and yellow appeared ahead of them. Vash began preparing a spell, but Gylhain waved him down.

“M’aiq,” she said. “What are you doing out here?” The figure turned to face them, revealing himself to be an aged Khajiit.

He shrugged. “M’aiq knows much,” he said in a thick accent, “and tells some. M’aiq knows many things others do not.”

“That’s great, M’aiq,” said Gylhain. “Do you know anything about the Thalmor being around here?”

“M’aiq has heard it is dangerous to be your friend,” he said, casting a glance at Vash.

“Ah, forget it,” said Gylhain, moving away. “I should’ve known better than to ask.”

Vash lingered. “Who are you?” he asked.

The Khajiit spoke again. “Some say Alduin is Akatosh. Some say M’aiq is a Liar. Don’t you believe either of those things.”

Gylhain retrod her steps to pull Vash away. “Come on,” she urged. “Once he gets started there’s no stopping him.”

M’aiq shrugged again. “M’aiq is done talking anyway,” he said, unaffected by Gylhain’s disinterest.

Vash and Gylhain ascended the next slope, steeper than all previous. Piles of stones now marked their path, but disappeared just as quickly as they walked.

“Who was that?” asked Vash, after they’d gone a short distance. More evidence that the Dragonborn knew everyone.

“M’aiq the Liar,” explained Gylhain. “Shows up in the oddest of places. Sometimes seems to know more than he’s telling, other times seems to be making everything up. Didn’t earn his name lightly, though.”

They continued. Another fallen tree marked their route, one that had wrenched a great chunk of soil with it when it had fallen. A run-down cabin stood ahead of them, its wooden boards falling off, its little fenced garden overgrown with vegetables and herbs.

“Have you been here before?” asked Vash.

“Long time ago,” said Gylhain. “There used to be an old woman who lived here. Anise.”

Vash poked his head through the doorway. There was no sign of any person, living or dead. “What happened to her?” he asked.

“She was a witch,” Gylhain said. “I had to kill her before she harvested my organs.”

Vash raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. They moved on past the cabin. The slope descended again and Gylhain led them to the left. They came down to the shore of the beginnings of Lake Ilinalta. On the other side a lone hunter sat fishing from a rock, a small boat pulled up onto dry land, a little tent pitched behind him.

“Hail!” called Gylhain, raising a hand in the air. The hunter returned the gesture. “Have you seen any Thalmor or Daedra?” she called.

“Gods, no!” returned the hunter. “But there’s something weird going on up at Helgen. Been telling everyone to avoid the place.”

“My thanks!” said Gylhain. “Good hunting to you, friend.”

“Same to you!” replied the hunter. He returned his gaze to his fishing pole.

“Damn,” said Gylhain, her voice returned to her normal pitch. “We’re on the wrong side of the river.”

“Maybe the others will be back at the inn by now,” ventured Vash. “If the Thalmor are up in Helgen, we should all head up there together.”

“Perhaps they’ve been more successful than us,” agreed Gylhain. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

Returning to the Sleeping Giant Inn, Gylhain and Vash discovered both of the other scouting pairs already returned. They all shared their individual stories: Kara spoke of the demonic hound, Vash of M’aiq the Liar, Falin of the amazing view from the falls. Gylhain added the hunter’s tale of disturbances in Helgen.

“Nobody saw Dar’epha?” asked Gylhain. The others shook their heads.

“I do not think any see that one unless she wishes it,” said Antario.

It was then that their Khajiit comrade burst through the door, drenched in sweat, her bow strung, breathing heavily. She collapsed on the bench next to Vash.

“So, Gyl,” she said, after taking a few gulps of air. “How many favours d’you reckon people owe you ‘round Skyrim?”

Gylhain frowned, unsure of where such a conversation was going. Either way, Dar’epha cut her off before she could reply.

“Because you’re gonna need to call in all of ’em,” she said. “The Thalmor are massing up in Helgen, more’n I’ve ever seen together. And I think they’re tryin’ to open a gate to Oblivion.”


	38. The Gathering Storm

Minutes after Dar’epha’s statement, only three of the group remained in the Sleeping Giant inn: Gylhain, Antario, and Kara. The latter two because it was dangerous for them to travel, being wanted by the Thalmor, the first because she believed that if the dam were to break, someone would need to be on hand to hold back the tide.

If the Thalmor were really constructing a gate to Oblivion—and Dar’epha believed it could be nothing else—then they would need all the help they could get to stop them. To that end, Gylhain had written a series of letters to give her companions, calling in favours from everyone she could think of.

Vash went to Winterhold, to gather what mages he could. Those who were more suited to direct combat, he had said, would be his top priority. His journey would take the longest, but could prove most crucial in stopping the Thalmor.

The shortest journey was Falin’s, who was only going to Whiterun and back. She sought aid from Jarl Balgruuf and Commander Caius, as well as the Companions of Jorrvaskr. Gylhain had made a home in Whiterun, had revitalised and helped the town in uncountable ways. If any one place would come to her aid, it was Whiterun, despite recent bad experiences.

Kureeth had been sent to Solitude, to deliver requests to High Queen Elisif, Captain Aldis, and the Imperial Legion—specifically the Dragonborn’s old commander, Legate Rikke. Despite no longer being an active member of the Legion, Gylhain felt sure her old war comrades would help if she asked.

Finally, Dar’epha headed to Riften. The more battle-inclined members of the Thieves Guild were her targets, as well as the fearsome Mjoll, and anyone else she could convince Jarl Maven to give them.

After seeing the four off, Gylhain returned to the long table inside the inn. She sat opposite Kara and Antario, the latter staring at her with an unreadable look.

“What is our course of action,” said Antario, “if the Thalmor should open their gate to Oblivion before our aid arrives?” His tone was sceptical. He had an inkling of what the answer would be, but was not entirely convinced that anyone could reasonably propose such a solution.

“Then I’ll hold the line myself,” replied Gylhain. Her face was firm and she leaned both elbows on the table. “You’re both welcome to join me.”

Kara rose to order another drink. Antario exhaled; the Dragonborn had answered just as he had expected. Another question had been nudging at his mind for some time now.

“If it is not a particularly rude question . . . where are you from? What place produced such an extraordinary figure as the Dragonborn?”

Gylhain half-smiled. “I’m from Skyrim,” she said.

“But . . . forgive me,” Antario went on. “Your features would indicate a parentage located within High Rock. Were you born in that land?”

Gylhain’s half-smile disappeared. “It doesn’t matter where you’re born,” she said. “I became who I am when Alduin landed in Helgen. Skyrim made me the Dragonborn.”

Antario shrugged and pretended it wasn’t of interest to him. There was nothing in the tales about who the Dragonborn had been before Helgen. She appeared to have burst forth fully formed on that day. Kara returned to the table, mead in hand.

“Not sure I belong here anymore,” said Gylhain.

Antario frowned at Kara before speaking. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You are a hero in this province. You have saved countless lives, accomplished feats most would deem impossible—”

Gylhain cut him off. “And what thanks do I get?” she spat. “A pat on the back, a ceremonial sword, honorary titles. Then it’s onto the next problem, the next bloodbath. The people of Skyrim can’t solve their own problems. Well, maybe soon they’ll have to.”

“You’re not thinking of leaving?” asked Kara, too quickly.

“Maybe,” said Gylhain. “Don’t know where I’d go.”

“But what about the gate?” asked Kara.

“I’ll see this through,” said Gylhain. “I always see a mission through. But the people of this province grate on me. Many are ungrateful, more are scum. There are times when there seem more criminals than citizens. I’ve already saved their world enough.”

“Your friends will miss you,” said Antario. “Dar’epha cares for you greatly. Vash’s respect for you is immense.” He looked for a moment at Kara, hesitant.

“They’re capable enough,” said Gylhain. “I’m sure they can cope on their own.”

“It is not about whether they can,” retorted Antario, “but whether they want to.”

Gylhain shrugged. In truth, it was her friends, most notably Dar’epha and Vash, which had given her pause. In the end she had realised that not even they could keep her in Skyrim. They would understand her need to leave if anyone would. But she would miss their company. And Angi was . . . Gylhain pushed that thought aside. All good things had to come to an end, she thought bitterly.

* * *

 

The afternoon rolled on, and eventually Falin reappeared, half a dozen figures trailing after her into the inn. Gylhain knew them all, and while disappointed at the low number, she rose to greet them all individually.

Irileth, Dunmer housecarl to Jarl Balgruuf, had been present when Gylhain had killed her first dragon. She had stood by as the beast’s soul had been torn from its broken body and absorbed into the Dragonborn. Uthgerd the Unbroken, Nord warrior, burdened by past crimes, still carrying her heavy two-handed sword on her back. She and Gylhain had adventured together for a short while, years ago now, back when she’d been younger, untested. Seemed an age ago to both of them, but she had come with aid, in memory of that time. Gylhain shook hands and thanked both of them.

“I would’ve brought some guards with me,” said Irileth. “But Balgruuf can’t spare any. Proventus went on and on about how an Oblivion gate wasn’t possible.” They shared a bitter grin; Balgruuf’s steward had always annoyed both of them.

Gylhain turned to the Companions of Jorrvaskr. Aela had come, Harbinger now for several years. The brothers Farkas and Vilkas. And Ria, who had been a raw recruit when Gylhain had left, but was now on the verge of being admitted to the Circle. A reminder, Gylhain realised, that lives continued even in her absence.

“More would have come,” said Aela. “But there are some who hold a grudge for you leaving like you did.”

The two embraced regardless. Histories uncountable linked them. “When this is done,” said Gylhain, “I’ll return, give an apology to anyone who asks for one.”

The newcomers sat and ordered drinks, Orgnar thrilled with the new custom. Soon Kara had drawn talk out from Uthgerd, and Antario’s smooth words made Ria giggle.

The light outside was fading when Dar’epha returned, grinning from ear to ear. She’d dragged her recruits through the shortcut south of the Throat of the World to save time. Straight from the Guild were any who could fight and weren’t out on jobs: Brynjolf and Karliah, who had accepted the mantle of Nightingale where Gylhain had not; Cynric and Niruin the archers; Etienne Rarnis, who Gylhain had pulled from the dungeons beneath the Thalmor Embassy; Rune and Maul, the brawlers; and Sapphire, who stuck close to Dar’epha. Two non-Guild members had come, Mjoll the Lioness, another previous adventuring companion of the Dragonborn’s, and Iona. Gylhain thanked them all.

“Delvin and Vex send their regards, lass,” said Brynjolf. “They’d come themselves, but someone needs to keep the Guild running.”

“Sit yourselves down,” said Gylhain. “Orgnar will get you all drinks.”

Mjoll looked around the now considerably more populated inn.

“We still waiting on more?” she asked.

Gylhain nodded. “I’ve got more people coming in from Solitude and Winterhold, hopefully.”

Mjoll looked thoughtful. “I’m here for you, not for them,” she said, indicating the pack of thieves.

“Thank you,” said Gylhain. They clasped wrists. She pointed out a pair of Nord women already in conversation. “Why don’t you introduce yourself to Kara and Uthgerd? You’d probably get along.”

Mjoll nodded apprehensively and moved off. Karliah slipped up to take her place.

“Good to see you. Been a while since you’ve been down in the Flagon,” she said.

“I’ll be back soon,” Gylhain promised. “For one last time.” Karliah gave her a strange look, but said nothing. She moved away to get herself a drink.

Vash was next, an hour later, the last rays of the sun vanishing over the mountains to the west. He’d brought Faralda, the College’s resident expert in Destruction magic, as well as J’zargo and Brelyna Maryon. Vash apologised for the lack of battle-oriented mages, but Gylhain waved it away. Mages were worth a dozen good fighters, she said, quietly so as not to anger the fighters.

Finally, under the cover of darkness came Kureeth. His face was rent with a deep frown, and Gylhain was about to ask the source of his distress when he said, “I had to talk.”

Gylhain thanked him, and he moved quickly to find Falin. Kureeth had, somehow, managed to find Jordis the Sword-Maiden, Gylhain’s old housecarl, and drag her out of retirement to fight alongside her old Thane once more.

“This is a one-time thing,” Jordis assured Gylhain. “I can’t be away from the children more than a day or two.”

Kureeth had also brought Legate Rikke, along with five soldiers of the Imperial Legion, all of whom Gylhain addressed by name. Vodus, Miles, Hulgar, Casscia, and Raddin. She had fought beside all of them at some point during the campaign.

Gylhain did a quick head-count. Thirty-three, including her original comrades and herself. She hoped it would be enough. She was heading for the bar when Iona cornered her for a conversation she’d been hoping to avoid.

“Angi isn’t with you,” demanded Iona.

Gylhain scuffed her feet against the floorboards. “She stayed in Valenwood,” she murmured, hoping the conversation around them would let the words vanish altogether.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I . . .” She wondered what she had done. What either of them had done. “We both realised that . . . that my life isn’t the sort where you can have someone along that you can’t bear getting hurt.”

Iona shook her head. “You can have whatever sort of life you want,” she said. “And you did, til you gave it up.” She paused, grinding her teeth. “I’ll fight with you, Gyl, but don’t come back to Honeyside. Way I see it, this is on you.”

Gylhain stepped back. There was nothing she could think of saying. She shook off the past and climbed up onto the bar. She said nothing, but gradually the gathered comrades noticed her and grew quiet, all eyes upon her.

She drew out the silence for a moment, scanning all had come to her aid. A varied, mostly disreputable bunch, but a skilled one. If only the rest of Skyrim was filled with such good people as these, she thought.

“My friends,” she began. “Thank you all for coming so soon. It is a debt that most likely can never be repaid.”

“Happy to help!” shouted Farkas. There was a round of ayes and nods.

“You’ve helped us all out, lass,” said Brynjolf from near the front. “It’s time we returned the favour.”

Gylhain nodded solemnly. “But it is not a favour for me,” she said. “It is a favour for everyone in this province. The Thalmor are massing in Helgen, seeking to open a gate to Oblivion. To unleash hell on Skyrim!”

Silence fell over the crowd again. A smile spread across Gylhain’s face; this would be a fight to remember, provided any of them survived.

“Well I say,” she said, leaving a dramatic gap, looking out over the assembled warriors, rogues, and mages, from all walks of life, all corners of Skyrim, “I say that we unleash hell on them!”


	39. The Battle of Helgen

Before the Thalmor set up their basecamp in the ruins of Helgen, the town was known for one event: the site of the first dragon attack of the age, the site where the Dragonborn was first revealed to the world. It would be the Dragonborn who would add another item to the history of the town, on the day her mismatched force descended to drive out the Thalmor and halt their nefarious plans.

Gylhain decided to split her forces and come at the Thalmor from as many directions as possible. Still standing on the bar of the Sleeping Giant inn, she composed her instructions.

“There’s a back entrance into Helgen’s Keep,” she said. “The Thalmor are probably holed up inside, we can surprise them from behind. Dar’epha, take some of the Guild up through there.” Her eyes moved over the candidates. “Brynjolf, Etienne, Sapphire. Falin, you’d best go with them, in case they need magic support.” The small mage nodded, her husband’s eyes directing a question at Gylhain. “Yes, Kureeth, you go with them too. I’ll show you the entrance, then head back to lead one of the other attacks.”

That left twenty-six, Gylhain counted. Enough for some surprise ground attacks. Helgen had three gates and she meant to make use of them. Dividing the groups was another challenge. It would be wise to keep the Imperial soldiers away from Kara, as well as the Guild away from lawkeepers like Mjoll and Irileth.

“Kara,” said Gylhain. “I need you to lead a group cross-country. Cut a wide loop around Helgen and come at it from the east.”

Kara knew the country well enough. There’d been a Stormcloak camp in the area, back when she’d been a part of that force. One of the last in Skyrim. When the camp was raided, she’d gone to ground in the surrounding countryside. She knew it as well as she knew anywhere. How or even whether the Dragonborn knew that, Kara had no idea.

“Cross-country?” she asked, cursing the unnecessary comment as soon as it passed her lips.

“Yes,” said Gylhain. “We’ll come at them from every available direction. Secure the gate and meet up with those coming from the north. Take . . .” She looked around the inn again. “Jordis and Uthgerd. Maul, Rune, Cynric and Niruin.  Faralda and Antario for magic.”

That left eighteen. Enough for the other two teams.

“Those that I’ve named, get yourselves ready,” said Gylhain. “You’ll need to leave first. Keep quiet, stay low.”

She then turned her gaze to splitting the rest. “Vash, you’ll lead the north team. Take the Companions. Aela, Farkas, Vilkas, Ria. Iona and Karliah, too.”

Vash nodded, his team gathering around him, making introductions in murmured tones. Gylhain would rather have had her orc friend with her, but she needed someone she could rely on leading each team, and they were low on mages.

“The last of you are with me,” she said, “coming from the west. Mjoll, Irileth, Rikke and the Legion. J’zargo and Brelyna will be our magic support. Our objective will be to take the tower. Once that’s under our control, our archers can form up on the roof and rain arrows down on the Thalmor. Kara and Vash’s teams, your gates are close together. Meet up and attempt to secure the courtyard for when Dar’epha exits the keep. I’ll have Brelyna or J’zargo send up a blue light when I’ve secured the tower. Archers to me when you see it. We’ll wait for Kara’s team to get in position. When you do,” he added to her, “have one of your mages send up a red light. That means we attack. Understood?”

There was another round of ayes and nods, more subdued this time as the seriousness of their task set it. Drinks were finished and weapons were readied.

“If you fall, we will remember you,” said Gylhain. “Skyrim will remember you.”

* * *

 

The Dragonborn pointed Dar’epha up a path that did not seem even to be worthy of that title. It was more of an overgrown gap in the landscape that wound up the hill. Still, she led her team up it and turned a corner to see the hole in the rock that was the back way into Helgen Keep. She kept low, but unable to see anyone on guard, she ushered her team up behind her and into the cleft.

Only one way forward, Gylhain had said. Dar’epha was thankful for that; it would not have done to become lost in a cave system while the others fought on up above without them. The ascent into the cave was steep and narrow, forcing the group into single file. Dar’epha led, and had directed Brynjolf, arguably the most experienced of the team—certainly the oldest, unless Falin was significantly older than she seemed—to take the rearguard.

The ground remained uneven for some time, dipping down and rising up, the passage twisting from left to right. As they turned a corner a gap in the rock let a shaft of moonlight in. A large cavern opened up before them, with a small river trickling through it. Empty, apart from the remnants of what looked like a bear’s lair, long abandoned. They moved on. The passage narrowed again, sloping steeply upwards. Dar’epha had flashes of imagination, picturing Gylhain fleeing down the same tunnels, a younger, less experienced woman, running from the chaos above.

She turned to look at her team as the next cavern came nearer. Etienne was slipping a bolt into a plain-looking crossbow. She shot him a disapproving look.

“What?” he asked. “It goes right through most armour.”

“Sure,” she said, holding up her own glass longbow in comparison. “But I can get off six with this while you’re reloadin. Don’t let it get you killed.”

He grinned, nodded, and they continued. The next cavern was filled with spider-webs, hanging from the ceiling and stretching from rock to rock, eggs clustered in dark corners. But no spiders moved in sight. They took a left alongside the little river, its downstream end vanishing in a gap in the rock to their right, to reappear in the bear’s cavern. Dar’epha leapt lightly from stone to stone, clearing the water and coming up dry on the other side. The other Guild members followed her example. Falin and Kureeth were more careful, but managed just fine.

There they found signs of humanity, a large set of stones steps ascending into a tunnel that had clearly been carved out by people rather than nature. Dar’epha ordered her team to silence, although they hadn’t been speaking more than the occasional murmur anyway.

“If we’re gonna find ’em, this is where they’ll start,” she whispered. “Be ready.” Weapons were drawn, arrows were nocked, and they advanced. But they found no Thalmor, not on the wooden bridge across the gap in the floor, not in the room with its stone bridge in front of a small waterfall. There was a large chest in that room too; Sapphire took a look inside. It swung open without needing its lock picked, she shrugged at Dar’epha and rejoined the group.

“Nothing but a rusting sword,” she said. They continued, slower and more carefully. It was impossible that the Thalmor were unaware of these tunnels entirely, Dar’epha reasoned. Soon enough they came to what appeared to be a broken wall, clambouring through to reveal the Keep’s dungeon. The first level was empty, the hanging cages filled only with bits of old bones. But there were fresh bloodstains on the floor and as they ascended to the next level, Dar’epha and Etienne had their respective bows trained on the light ahead.

A long dank hall followed, with cells on either side. Three were empty, but the fourth had a decomposing corpse in it. Dar’epha wrinkled her nose and gestured to her team. Her ears had picked up the scuffing of boots on stone, and low voices. There were people around the corner. She took a peek, then retreated. Four Thalmor and one quietly gibbering prisoner in a thick-barred cage. She nodded at Etienne and they stepped out as one, taking out one enemy each, the blood spurting across the Altmer’s black robes.

The third was in elven armour, but Etienne went into a dive-roll, coming up at the end of it with a throwing knife that he launched into the Thalmor’s face. The fourth, also in armour, tried to run, yelling.

“Ambush!” he screamed, heading for the stairs. “Ambush in the dungeon!”

Falin wrapped him in a paralysis spell and he collapsed. Kureeth lunged the distance in a heartbeat and crush the Thalmor’s skill with two well-placed stomps. Brynjolf whistled appreciatively.

“D’you think they heard us?” asked Etienne.

Dar’epha turned her face upwards, her ears twitching as she picked up the sounds of running feet and yelling above them.

“We need to get above-ground,” she said. “I think our time’s just run out.”

* * *

 

It had taken far less than time than expected for Kara to lead her team around to Helgen’s eastern gate. Crouching behind a rockface, she could lean out and see the large double wooden doors of the gate, and the covered walkway that ran above it. Two Thalmor in elven armour stood on the walkway, conversing. She could make out more signs of activity in the town beyond. Antario edged up beside her.

“The other teams should be in position by now,” he whispered. “And Dar’epha will be well on her way up through the Keep.”

Kara ground her teeth. The moment she’d been dreading. “Alright,” she said. She turned to face her team. “This is it.” They drew their weapons. “Faralda, launch the signal. Please.” The Altmer mage nodded, preparing the spell and hurling it into the sky, casting a wide arc over the town below. They charged.

“Archers!” yelled Kara. “Take the guards!”

An explosion and several flashes of light came from the north gate. Cynric and Niruin launched arrows simultaneously, straight into their targets. One of the guards was struck from the walkway and fell to earth beyond, the other staggered and cried out in pain. Antario blasted him away with a bolt.

“Mages, the gate!” yelled Kara.

Antario and Faralda both cast fireballs, sending bits of flaming gate flying inwards. Kara hurdled the shreds, Jordis and Uthgerd on either side of her. With that, Kara’s team entered Helgen.

* * *

 

Vash had drawn the worst entrance, he soon discovered. A steep incline led up to his team’s assigned gate, with little cover most of the way. Both Masser and Secunda were out, he noticed, lighting their night. His team was crammed behind an outcrop of rock as close as they could get without being spotted. Even getting that far hadn’t been easy.

But he already had his spells prepared when the signal came. Stepping out from cover, he cast two lightning bolts: one that rippled and jumped, blasted the guards of the covered walkway and collapsed a large section of its roof; the other a concentrated burst that left a gaping hole in the centre of the gate. It somehow remained on its hinges.

“Well come on then,” he said to his astonished team, starting the run up the hill. They fell in behind him, the twins on one side, Aela and Ria on the other, Iona and Karliah with bows out behind them.

Vash launched two more bolts, one from each hand to clear away the rest of the gate. He hardened his flesh to the level of ebony and summoned a bound spear in his right hand. Leaping over the remnants of the gate he espied a target and hurled with all his might, the force of the throw taking the spear through one Thalmor and into a second. Both spurted blood and collapsed.

The town was not as ruined as he’d expected; it seemed the Thalmor had done some clearing up. Most of the rubble that Gylhain had mentioned seemed to be gone, and while the houses were probably still not habitable, it didn’t look too bad, for a town that had been razed by a dragon. There was a crash and some flames, and Kara’s team broke through their gate and entered the town. Thalmor were swarming out of the half-destroyed houses and the Keep. Vash summoned a huge bound greatsword he could wield in one hand, and went to meet them.

* * *

 

Gylhain’s entrance to Helgen was narrower, a gap in the wall the size of a normal door. The slope was even steeper than what Vash had to deal with. The upside was that the Thalmor had not posted any guards. Perhaps they’d been unable to get up onto the wall because of the ruined sections, Gylhain mused, or had perhaps thought the west path, barely used, did not deserve a guard. Either way, it meant she and her team could get right up to the wall, pressing themselves up against the stone on either side of the opening. Rikke was on the right side, Gylhain the left.

When the signal came, the Dragonborn was the first through the doorway. It was clearer than she remembered it from the last time she’d been there, on a reminiscing quest with Hadvar. The Thalmor had cleared away most of the fallen stones and burnt wood that had blocked the archways and paths and forced Gylhain to take long routes through the shells of destroyed homes. Unbelievably, the headman’s block still sat where it had sat all that time ago. The ground around it bore heavy scorchmarks, but the block was still there.

“The tower!” she shouted, cleaving her scimitar through a surprised Thalmor warrior. Mjoll and Irileth moved to either side of her, and the Rikke formed the Legion soldiers into a barricade of shields to protect the mages. Gylhain cleared the distance to the tower quickly, remembering how she’d taken refuge in it while Alduin roared fire. If only she’d known what Ulfric would go on to do, she could have save everyone a lot of bother. No point dwelling in the past, she thought.

She decapitated a Thalmor and heard the crackle of bolts as Brelyna and J’zargo launched spells into their foes. She leapt up the steps into the tower and said three words.

“ _Tiid Klo Ul!”_ Time slowed to a crawl at the sound of her Voice. The three Thalmor within the base of the tower scrambled to get out of their seats, but moved sluggishly, at a pace that was no match for the Dragonborn. She cut them all down with quick, short slashes.

“Get in!” she yelled back at her team as the effects of the Shout dissipated. Irileth and Mjoll were the first to clear the threshold, Brelyna and J’zargo following quickly. One of the Legionnaires, Raddin, fell to a Thalmor fireball, his face consumed by the flames, screaming as he died. Rikke led the remaining four into the tower. Gylhain cursed and started up the stairs.

“J’zargo, Mjoll, with me!” she said. “The rest of you, hold that door!” She ascended the winding stone steps, the Nord woman with her huge sword and the Khajiit with his fireballs at the ready behind her. They passed the huge hole in the wall where Alduin had stuck his head through and blasted flames. At the top of the tower there were four Thalmor, two mages and two warriors, launching spells and arrows down on the Dragonborn’s force.

They took them from behind with no warning. Gylhain buried her sword through one of the mages. J’zargo launched two of his favourite spells, fireballs, blasting the other mage and a warrior off the tower to their doom below. Mjoll separated the final warrior’s head from his shoulders.

“Send up the blue signal,” spat Gylhain, grinding teeth. “I’ll round them up.” She took the stairs down three at a time, reached the gap in the wall and jumped through it. She had leapt that gap once before, dressed in ragged clothes with her hands bound, desperately trying to escape a seemingly unbeatable foe. She had hunted that foe to Sovngarde itself and ended their life. The second time Gylhain leapt that gap, she did so as the Dragonborn, her scimitar splattered with red, a warrior in ebony out for blood.

She got it, landed with a heavy roll, coming up with her sword slashing. It bounced off a Thalmor’s shield. Her foe smiled and came at her, self-sure. The Dragonborn sneered, nipped past the Altmer’s guard and used her sword to let the elf’s guts see daylight. She booted her dying foe away and set out carving a path to her allies.

It didn’t take long for Gylhain and Vash to join up. Kara and Antario soon joined them, their archers and other mages positioned on the tower, the walkways and rooftops, raining arrows and fire down on the scrambling Thalmor. Together, the four companions pushed the battle into the courtyard in front of Helgen Keep.

It was then that the path to the Hells opened up.

The Thalmor’s gateway to Oblivion had been constructed off to the right as one exited the Keep, straight ahead from where Gylhain was. Its opening pulsed with reds and oranges and yellows, echoing a giant furious eye. A single Thalmor mage stood in front of it, and turned to face the group, his face twisted with anger.

“You fools!” he yelled. “You ruin everything. But at last you will feel the might of the Thalmor! The gate is open, you will never—”

His monologue was interrupted as the Keep’s door was kicked outwards. Kureeth emerged, his armour covered in blood. Falin joined him on one side, Dar’epha on the other.

“Sorry we’re late,” said the Khajiit, wiping blood off her face.

Vash shrugged and hurled an ice spike through the Thalmor mage’s chest. “I’d say you’re right on time,” he said. With those words, the demons spewed forth from the gate.

“How do we shut it?” asked Gylhain. But she was already sure of the answer before Vash spoke.

“From the other side,” the orc said.

That would be a problem, Gylhain realised, as the amount of enemies grew larger. Mostly dremora, she noticed, of all sizes and varieties, along with a huge number of black hellhounds. A flock of bat-like monsters with leathery wings and gnashing teeth soon followed. Gylhain and her companions charged to meet them all.

It became clear that their teams were not cut out for this sort of battle, even combined as they were. A legionnaire fell almost straight away to the huge sword of a dremora. Maul was torn to pieces by the bat monsters, screaming as his limbs left his body. When Ria saw a fireball whooshing towards Brelyna, she shoved the mage out of the way and took the force of the blast herself. They’d barely known each other’s names.

Gylhain saw the lines of battle faltering, and called out to Vash.

“We need to clear this and get through the gate!” she yelled. Vash understood. He called out to the other mages, ordering them to prepare a spell and combine it with his. The Dragonborn stepped out ahead of the line of her comrades and unleashed Unrelenting Force upon the daedra, sending them cascading through the air away from her.

“Now!” shouted Vash. He launched his spell: chain lightning. Antario, Falin, Faralda, Brelyna, and J’zargo launched the same, combining into a huge array of flashing bursts of light and destruction. The bolts jumped from every enemy to every other enemy at the same time, a labyrinth of energetic force, frying them all where they stood or hovered multiple times over. When the lights faded, all that was left were ashes.

“There’ll be more!” yelled Gylhain, rushing to the gate. “Hold the line!” She leapt through the furious eye that opened to Oblivion, and vanished. Dar’epha and Vash took one look at each other and followed after her.

In the temporary lull, Kureeth took a step towards the gateway. Falin laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Someone needs to lead here,” she said softly to him. He nodded and stepped back.

Antario was next. At the last moment he turned around.

“There will be Thalmor hiding among the ruins,” he said. “Let none escape.” He took a casual step through and was gone.

That left Kara. She looked around at the gathered forces, bloodied and bedraggled. None of them looked willing to follow in after the others. But to her, another realm presented another opportunity. She wished she could say something inspiring, something other than just repeating Antario or the Dragonborn.

“Search the town,” she said. “Any demons come out of the gate, kill them. Hold the line.” She turned away from their faces, took a deep breath and ran. She jumped with sword drawn into hell.


	40. Dark of the Evergloam

Dar’epha crossed through the gate and into utter darkness. Even her heightened Khajiiti eyes revealed only vague shapes at undefinable distances. She waved her right arm through the dark, feeling for any sort of object or indicator of location. Her paw found nothing, other than an odd sensation that the air was thicker than usual, requiring more effort to push through. There was no sign of anything resembling a human figure. She went to take a step, but was halted by a voice.

“ _I wouldn’t do that if I were you,”_ it said. A male voice, with a trace of a Cyrodiilic accent.

“Why not?” she asked immediately, withdrawing her foot. She tightened her grip on her bow, considering the uselessness of nocking an arrow when she could not see her target.

“ _There is a precipice,”_ said the voice. _“Of sorts. The fall would be inconvenient.”_

“Who are you?” she asked, peering futilely through the dark. “And where are you?”

 _“I am everywhere,”_ said the voice. _“You stand in the Evergloam, realm of Nocturnal, the Mistress of Shadows.”_ The voice faded momentarily. _“As for who I am, I believe I was known in life as Gallus Desidenius.”_

Now there was a name Dar’epha recognised. “Gallus?” she said. “You were Guild Master, ’fore my time. But you died, Mercer Frey betrayed you. I heard the story.”

Gallus’ voice lifted. _“I am dead, yes. I am one with the shadows. I have come merely so as to provide some form of familiarity for you in this realm.”_

“What does Nocturnal want with me?” asked Dar’epha. “I honour her in my own way.” She sought the source of Gallus’ voice, but could not identify it. He indeed sounded as if his voice emerged from the darkness itself.

“ _There is a position available to you,”_ said Gallus. _“It was once offered to your friend Gylhain, but she turned it down: that of Nightingale.”_

“They asked Gylhain to be a Nightingale?” scoffed Dar’epha. “Look, I love her and all that, but she can’t sneak for shit.”

There was never any question for her that the Nightingales were real; the coincidences and rumours were too many to discount. She’d had Karliah pegged as one for some time. But Gylhain? She admitted the offer made a sort of sense. It was Gylhain, after all, who’d dispatched Mercer Frey and set the Guild on its road to recovery.

“But she swore off dealin with Daedra,” said Dar’epha.

“ _Indeed, Nocturnal informed us that the other Princes were most displeased. It is why you are here instead of her.”_ Gallus sounded almost sad, but it was hard for her to tell.

“Nocturnal wants me to be a Nightingale?” she asked, knowing the question was unnecessary. Her words began to rush into one another. "I’m all flattered over here, don’t get me wrong. But I ain’t cut out for that job. Can’t she pick one’a the others?”

 _“You are the best thief the Guild has, are you not?”_ asked Gallus.

“Well now, I ain’t one to go blowin my own horn,” she said, entirely untruthfully, “but some have been known to say that, yeah.”

 _“You have a sense of honour, a moral code,”_ Gallus went on. _“You are loyal. Gylhain is not. At least not to Nocturnal, I cannot speak to her other lives. You are the obvious choice.”_

Dar’epha ransacked her mind for everything she’d heard about the Nightingales, filtering it through to find another objection, any objection.

“Don’t Nightingales serve for life?” she asked.

 _“Traditionally, yes,”_ answered Gallus. _“But the motives of the Mistress of Shadows are not for mortals to judge.”_

Dar’epha snorted. Then she remembered the reason she was there and cursed herself for taking so long to bring it up. People could’ve been dying right then, she realised, outside the gate. “Hey, can she shut the gate? I’d kinda like to go back to a Helgen that ain’t full of demons.”

 _“I do not know,”_ replied Gallus. _“Regardless, you will have to speak to her if you wish to leave this realm.”_

“Right,” said Dar’epha. “Let’s get on with that, then. But oh,” she added with deliberate pause, “how am I supposed to go find Nocturnal if I can’t even see my fuckin paw in front of my face?”

 _“I shall guide you,”_ said Gallus. He hesitated before continuing, as if the talking was wearing him out. _“Turn to your right and walk in a straight line. Keep a hand outstretched, you will come to a door. Push it open.”_

Dar’epha followed the dead thief’s instructions, feeling her way with each tentative step. Her usual surefootedness was torn away from her in this realm, she realised. She trod carefully; with her eyesight close to useless, she relied on her other senses to guide her. She felt the door and pushed through, a small level of blissful light reaching her eyes.

“Does this place have a name?” she asked, leaving the door open behind her. She blinked rapidly to adjust to the new level of light. She was in a small bare room, all grey stone. A stairway extended upwards opposite the door. The low light did not appear to have a discernible source, but she was thankful for it all the same.

 _“Much of this realm is indistinguishable from itself,”_ said Gallus. _“But you stand in the Shade Perilous, one of only a handful of named regions in the Evergloam, and the most prized. Its history is . . . somewhat bloody.”_

“My favourite kind,” said Dar’epha. She headed up the stairs, still moving slowly so as not to trip. Looking at the shadows, she saw they seemed to be more solid than air, although when she passed through there was only mild resistance, like she had felt when she first arrived.

“Gallus,” she ventured. “You said you were everywhere? Is that you I’m feelin when I’m touchin the shadows?”

“ _In a way, yes,”_ said Gallus. _“When a Nightingale dies, they become one with the shadows. When you walk in them, you are aided by every Nightingale that has ever lived, as are all those with Nocturnal’s favour.”_

Dar’epha made a humming sound, thinking it over. “So that’s why the Guild has such good luck. Walkin with the shadows. Kinda poetic, huh?”

Gallus remained silent. Dar’epha kept on climbing the stairs, getting used to the twilight, able to move with greater speed from one stone step to the next. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity of blank stone walls, the steps ended, and she entered a wide courtyard with a circular pool in the centre. A viscous blue-black liquid swirled within. Silence reigned over the dim room. Looking up, Dar’epha could not tell where the walls ended and the deep blue-black sky began.

When she looked down, Nocturnal was floating above the pool. Although the Daedric Princes were not restrained by the gender binaries held to by many mortals, her figure was clearly feminine beneath her hooded and flowing robe.

“Gallus has filled you in,” spoke the Daedra. It was not a question. “He has left out what usually brings mortals around: the rewards. That is what you really want to know, is it not? How being a Nightingale shall benefit you, how it shall make you more powerful. That is what all you mortals want: more power.” The white flash of a grin was visible for a second in the shadows of Nocturnal’s hood. “It is a desire the Daedra share.”

Dar’epha was, possibly for the first time in her life, struck speechless.

“The Agents of Nocturnal are unseen,” the Night Mistress continued. “Accept this title, and you will walk unseen through the night. Your enemies will turn on each other, their life force will bolster your own. The Nightingales are fine thieves before they serve me. After, they are the best. Thieves and criminals all over the land will live in awe of you, tell tales of your mythic deeds.”

“Sounds pretty good,” said Dar’epha, rediscovering the power of speech. “What’s in it for you?”

Nocturnal smiled again and Dar’epha felt a shiver run through her fur that was not entirely removed from the erotic. “Do all in my name,” said Nocturnal. “And let none desecrate the Sepulcher.”

“That sounds do-able,” said Dar’epha. “I’ll do it.”

“Of course you will,” replied the Daedra. “Choose an aspect and begone. I have business elsewhere and your manner is tiring.”

“One thing,” said Dar’epha. “Can you close the gate?”

“The gate you entered through?” enquired Nocturnal, her voice laced with tiredness. “No, I cannot. It is beyond my sphere.” With that she vanished, leaving only the twilight. Gallus’ voice emanated from the shadows once again.

 _“Karliah and Brynjolf will induct you in the traditional manner upon your return,”_ he said. _“Choose the aspect of your agency and you shall be returned to your realm.”_ He hesitated and then added, “ _Be advised that it is unwise to ask many boons of the Mistress of Night. Her motives are—”_

“Not for us to question,” finished Dar’epha. “Yeah, I got that. Brynjolf, huh? My money woulda been on Vex. So what are these aspects she was talkin about?”

“ _On the floor_ ,” said Gallus. Dar’epha looked down, and sure enough, there they were. Three symbols spaced at even intervals around the pool: a crescent moon, a half moon, and a full moon. “ _This pool exists upon Tamriel, in the Sepulcher_ ,” continued Gallus. “ _You may choose another aspect there, though only one at any time. The crescent moon represents the Agent of Shadow, who can manipulate the darkness to become invisible. The half-moon represents the Agent of Subterfuge, who can turn their enemies against one another. The full moon represents the Agent of Strife, who can drain the life force of others_.”

Dar’epha circled the pool, examining the three symbols. “Nocturnal didn’t seem thrilled about the whole thing,” she said.

“ _Do not take offence_ ,” said Gallus. “ _It is merely her way_.”

Dar’epha made a disapproving noise. “I choose the Agent of Shadow,” she said. She hesitated before reaching for it. “Don’t suppose I’ll ever you again, huh?”

“ _It is unlikely_ ,” agreed Gallus. “ _These are extraordinary circumstances_.”

“In that case,” said Dar’epha, “it’s been nice knowin you.” She reached for the crescent moon symbol and felt something tug at her insides when her paw touched its surface.

“ _The pleasure_ ,” said Gallus, his voice fading with every word, “ _has been all mine. Tell Karliah that I will see her again in time_. _Good luck._ ”

The journey into Oblivion had been a sensation similar to stepping out of a building into the night. For Dar’epha, the journey back was like being thrown through a window and into a lake. It was still night in Helgen. It wasn’t until she was flung back through the gate that she realised how pleasantly warm it had been in the Evergloam. The night in the mountain town was cold, and she was forced to screw her eyes shut against the glare of the moonlight, shining down on her as if it knew how annoying it was to her at that moment. Any light cutting across her darkness suddenly seemed unbearable.

Strong hands pulled her to her feet and she looked up to see Brynjolf’s face. His hair and beard were matted with blood but he appeared otherwise exactly as he always did. A smile crept across his face as she looked at him.

“Welcome back, lass,” he said.


	41. The Blood of All Kinds

Antario crossed through the gate and fell on a hard surface. He stood and dusted himself off, feeling his magicka start to regenerate from the exertions of the fight at Helgen. He was on a floating platform of rock suspended above an endless expanse of bubbling lava. His platform was some distance above it, but he could feel its blistering heat if he leaned over the edge. There was nothing in sight, no landforms, no lifeforms. There was also no discernible method of suspension for his platform. Antario wondered if the laws of gravity still applied in the realms of Oblivion.

His Akaviri sword was still in his right hand and he rested its point gently on the rock, throwing back his hood to better cope with the heat. The next step would be to determine his location. Clearly the others had ended up somewhere else. He was in the Deadlands perhaps, or the Pits. Then he saw the sky and he had no doubt.

It was filled with rolling black and grey clouds all the way to the horizon, tossing and turning like the bedclothes of a restless giant. Bursts of lighting flashed across almost constantly, but there was not a drop of rain, nor even the faintest sense of moisture in the air. Antario knew where he was. Attribution’s Share. The Realm of Boethiah, Prince of Deceit. If he had been brought here, Antario realised, then that would only mean—

Suddenly Boethiah was there. Androgynously garbed, in loose blue-and-gold pants and tunic with a billowing black cape that could have concealed anything or nothing. A face that could have been any gender, and could have passed for half the races of Tamriel. A deceiver of nations, if the legends could be believed. Antario had the deep feeling that they could.

“You’re _right_ on time,” said Boethiah, in a smooth, irreproachable voice. “Yours is the _third_ bout. Here, the _first_ is _just_ about to begin. _Observe_.” His emphases did not seem to have a rhythm to them that Antario could pinpoint.

The horizon itself seemed to move. Antario staggered, but did not fall from his platform. When he looked up, there were other floating platforms at the same height as his, arranged in a circle around a larger, slightly lower circular platform. The appearance had changed, but Antario recognised the basic arrangement from the writings of the Champion of Cyrodiil.

“This is the Tournament of Ten Bloods,” he breathed. He looked at the other platforms and saw figures like his own standing upon them. However, a quick count revealed a total of sixteen rather than ten.

“Yes, of _course_ it is,” said Boethiah, face crinkled. “Though I grew _so_ _bored_ with the previous set-up. I’ve made _some_ additions to the _usual_ ten races of Tamriel. Some _new blood._ The Sload are represented, as are the Falmer. _But_ what I’m most proud of are our Akaviri _friends._ And _you_ have one _their_ swords. How de _light_ ful.”

Yet the Daedra’s voice contained not a shred of delight.

“You’re _one_ of the _lucky_ ones,” grinned Boethiah with sharpened teeth. The gaps between them seemed to descend into a bottomless pit. Antario was sure he could see grasping arms deep within that grin, desperately, futilely trying to reach salvation. “Paired with _the orc_ in the first round,” Boethiah finished, after a gap that went on for an age.

 _“LET US BEGIN!”_ called out the Daedra. Their voice suddenly rang out from every pore of the air. “ _Win the tournament and you may ask your boon. Pray that your death is short. Pray that your death is quiet_. _But do not pray to me, for you are nought but dust in my eye._ ”

Two of the small platforms descended from their positions, meeting the edge of what Antario now realised was to be the arena. The two combatants disembarked their platforms. Antario felt a sudden panic and strained his eyes to examine them.

“Can’t _see?”_ asked Boethiah. “Then let’s get a _closer look!_ ” All of the smaller platforms suddenly lurched forward and down, closer to the arena. Regaining his balance, Antario could see that none of the figures present were those of his comrades. There, at least, was some relief. He would not be forced to fight his friends for the amusement of a crazed demon.

But the figures now circling each other in the arena were like nothing he had ever seen in Tamriel. The first was covered in golden scales, humanoid only from the waist up, with a reptilian face similar to that of a snake’s. That theme continued, as the creature’s lower half was entirely snake. As it moved, it seemed to shimmer, its golden scales moving and rearranging themselves. Antario blinked, and the creature stood on two legs. It held two curved blades like Antario’s, one in each hand, both of significantly higher quality than his.

 _“Admiring_ my Tsaesci?” asked Boethiah. _“All_ the way from _Akavir!_ A real _pain to obtain_.” The Daedra spun into cackling laughter.

“What is its opponent?” ventured Antario.

The laughter stopped abruptly. “The _Kamal, yes,”_ said Boethiah. “ _Entirely_ lost and alone. Although _not_ alone in _that_.”

The Kamal was small and white, full of protruding horns and spikes, and was not handling the heat of the realm well. It was visibly distressed, glancing rapidly all around, chattering something untranslatable. It carried no weapon but its sharp teeth and claws.

The Tsaesci yelled something towards its opponent, who did not reply. The snake-being lunged forward with its twin swords at a speed Antario’s eyes struggled to follow. Within a heartbeat, the Kamal’s head was separated from its shoulders. Silence reigned over the arena.

 _“_ Oh, _poor form!”_ yelled Boethiah. “At _least_ put _up_ a _fight!”_ They landed languidly on the platform next to Antario. “I wonder who’s up _next?_ ” they said.

“Why is it that you are talking to me and not the others?” asked Antario. Boethiah was infamous for many things, but straight-talking was not one of them. He was being careful not to be affected by everything they were saying.

The Daedra grinned, again revealing the void. Antario had to look away. “I’m _sure you_ can work that one _out,”_ they said.

Antario looked around at the other small platforms and the figures on them, trying to work his brain around the absence of logic that pervaded Oblivion. Many seemed to be engaged in silent conversations with the air.

“I suppose, seeing as this is your realm, you could theoretically be talking to everyone at the same time.”

Boethiah did a small clap. “ _Bravo_ ,” they said. “You’re the _first_ to become aware of it. _Now_ , the next fight.”

The Tsaesci had returned to its platform. The next two descended the now shorter distance to the arena, depositing an Argonian and a Khajiit. The Argonian was imposing, tall with bulging muscles. He wore simple clothes: a sleeveless tunic, light pants, the thick gloves and boots of a worker. In contrast to the Tsaesci, his scales were a dull black, with pale curved horns looping around his earholes. His weapon was a simple long-handled warhammer that he held loosely in one hand, tapping the head on his ankle with a gentle rhythm. The Khajiit was smaller and wiry, holding a small ebony dagger in each hand. Her left ear was missing, and much of the fur along the same side bore scorchmarks. She wore bedraggled leathers and furs.

“You _wouldn’t_ know it,” said Boethiah, “but _these_ two are notorious in _their own_ lands.”

The two combatants circled each other warily, the Khajiit trying to work out a way past her opponent’s weapon, the Argonian merely waiting for her to give it a try. When she did, she came in low and from his right. She was fast and experienced, but the hammer thudded into her head and knocked her to the ground. The Argonian, instead of delivering another blow that could have killed her, moved back, giving her room to rise. She did so, cradling one hand against her head, feeling the blood flow from the wound and down her neck.

Boethiah cackled. “ _He’s_ drawing it _out!”_ they said, like it was the greatest present anyone had ever got them. The Khajiit, much slower now, came at the Argonian again, for what other choice was there? She staggered forward, lunging and stabbing with both daggers, but the hammer thudded down again, caving another way into her skull. She slumped, face-down. The Argonian prodded at her with his boot and provoked no reaction.

“Oh, bravo! _Bravo!”_ called Boethiah, and Antario thought that this part could be heard by the Argonian as well. “Still _much_ too short. I _hope you_ were paying attention,” they said to Antario. “ _You_ could be up against _him_ soon enough. _Who knows_ what could _happen!”_

Up on his platform, the summoned Breton, perhaps terrified or perhaps canny, loaded the crossbow that was his weapon. He launched a bolt into the Sload that occupied that platform next to his. The slug creature spat foul blood, let out a horrific scream, and died. Boethiah burst out laughing.

“That is _exactly_ the sort of thing I need _more of!”_ they shouted. “But I’m _afraid_ I can’t let you pull the _same_ trick _twice.”_ The smaller platforms came crashing down to the level of the arena. The motion caused the chosen Bosmer to fall off, vanishing below into the lava. Thin rock bars extended over each platform, turning them into domed cages. But too slow to stop the falling elf.

“Oh _dear,”_ said Boethiah. _“_ Looks like we’re _down_ to thirteen. Twelve, when _this_ fight is done.” The Argonian and his warhammer were dragged by magic across the arena to his cage, the bars briefly opening to let him in. “Altmer,” announced the Daedra, “meet Falmer.”

They pointed to a cage and it opened, the blind stunted mer stepping into the arena, a vicious axe in its hand.

“You said I would be fighting the orc,” protested Antario.

“I _lied_ ,” replied Boethiah.

The Falmer had heard Antario’s voice and leapt towards him, axe raised above its head. Antario stood his ground and blasted his foe across the arena with a lightning bolt. Smoking, the twisted shadow of an elf rose and came at him again. This time Antario waited until the last second, then slammed a fireball into the Falmer’s chest. He plunged his sword through the charred remains of the Falmer’s head, and was thrown across the arena into his cage, the bars closing around him. Boethiah, floating next to the enclosure, sneered at him.

Up next was the Breton with his crossbow, dressed in the studded armour and leathers of a bandit, his face smeared with dirt. His opponent was a creature that reminded Antario of the Imga of Valenwood. Boethiah introduced it as a Tang Mo, from Akavir. It was large and hulking, with black fur covering most of its body, with silver streaks on its back. Its face was almost human, its eyes contained intelligence as it assessed the threat of the Breton.

Disregarding him as puny, the beast charged, dropping to all fours to lope across the arena at him. The Breton loosed a bolt, taking the Tang Mo in the chest. It slumped, letting out a low grunt of pain. Slowly but surely, the great ape started to rise, reaching for the bolt and pulling it loose. Antario’s eyes widened. Boethiah’s grin widened. The Breton began to hurriedly load another bolt.

Fumbling with the mechanics of his weapon, the Breton looked up, seeing the huge creature bearing down on him. The bolt slotted into place. He pulled the trigger and dived to the right. The bolt flew true, buried into the Tang Mo’s forehead. The Breton breathed a sigh of relief as he was carried through the air back to his cage.

“ _Not_ bad,” pondered Boethiah, “for a _last_ minute replacement.”

Antario restrained himself from asking, given the response to his last question. But he suspected that the role of the Breton would have originally been filled by Gylhain. He wondered in what realms his allies had ended up. Antario scanned the other cages and realised that Gylhain would have made short work of all of these opponents.

The next fight was between the orc and the Dunmer. The orc was as huge as the Argonian had been, and was clad in the spiked armour of his people, including the open-faced helmet. His beard was long and knotted, and streaks of red war-paint made diagonal stripes across his face. His weapon was a huge dwarven battleaxe, a monolithically heavy thing that he wielded with ease.

The Dunmer was much smaller, dressed only in a loincloth, and carried a single elven dagger. His red eyes flickered with the joy of the oncoming fight. Antario frowned. Such an obvious mismatch, something odd must be afoot.

His misgivings were validated when the Dunmer held up his left hand and vanished. The orc swung wildly around the arena with his battleaxe, but found nothing.

“Face me, coward!” he bellowed. There was a thunk and the Dunmer appeared, having leapt from behind the orc to land with one foot on each of his opponent’s shoulders.

“No,” said the Dunmer, and reached down to drive his dagger through the orc’s eye and into his brain. He leapt clear of the thrashing orc, who collapsed with his limbs spasming madly. The Dunmer watched in silence as his foe passed through the throes of death and beyond.

Boethiah clapped loudly. “Isn’t he _extraordinary?”_ they exclaimed. “He was _rotting_ in a Stormhold cell when I found him, _waiting_ to be _executed._ Perhaps he’ll kill _you_ next.” Antario decided not to respond to that one, though he was cataloguing his possible opponents, assessing strengths and weaknesses.

Two more cages opened. A humanoid figure who, by process of elimination, Antario reckoned as the Imperial, stepped out of the first, dressed in elaborate shining steel armour with a golden cape. On one arm they carried a glistening golden shield, with the other they drew a shining silvery longsword. Their helmet was full so that their face could not be seen, but they walked with confidence towards their opponent.

The opponent in question was the final Akaviri warrior, and from the descriptions he knew, could only be one of the Ka Po’Tun. The tiger warriors striving towards dragonhood. The feline warrior resembled a Khajiit in some respects, although his fur was shades of deep red and orange, slashed with black stripes. His armour was scaled and black, segmented so as to allow him greater movement—though at the cost of several unprotected spots. He wore no helm and wielded a single two-handed blade that curved in the same fashion as Antario’s, but of far greater length and reach.

The Imperial seemed content to circle around their foe, sizing up his strength. The Ka Po’Tun was not so content. Scything forward, the Akaviri blade hammered a deep dent in the Imperial’s shield, then knocked against their helmet, staggering them to the side. The Ka Po’Tun danced back. He was fast, perhaps even faster than the Tsaesci had been.

The Imperial came on the attack, their shield up, their shining sword swinging down. The Ka Po’Tun turned it aside with his own blade, then drove the point to a new home through the Imperial’s chest. He yanked it out and repeated the manoeuvre in his foe’s head. Blood spurted and the Imperial champion collapsed. The Ka Po’Tun wiped his blade on the fallen figure’s cape and retreated voluntarily to his cage.

The first to fight were those who had not already: the Redguard and the Nord. The Redguard was a woman, wrapped in the robes of Hammerfell, wielding a scimitar and a small circular iron shield. A single whisper of black hair escaped her hood, trailing in the realm’s wind. The Nord was much like the sort Antario had come to despise during his time in Skyrim: large, hairy, and unclean, in rusting iron armour and wielding a large greatsword of the same. But his face displayed only terror.

“No,” muttered the Nord. “No, I won’t die here, can’t die here. Have to get out.”

“There is only one way out,” said the Redguard, swishing her sword as she approached. “Victory.”

“No,” breathed the Nord, his eyes darting around at something unseen to the others. He dropped his sword and ran for the edge of the arena. The Redguard chased after him with greater speed, kicking his legs out from under him before he got to the edge. He scrambled backwards away from her, but she planted a foot on his chest.

“I am sorry,” she said solemnly, before she hacked into his neck.

“Ah _well,”_ said Boethiah, as the Redguard was returned to her cage. “We can’t _all_ be champions, _hmm?_ You’re _up_ , elf.”

Antario exited his cage to discover his opponent was the disappearing Dunmer. Antario sent out a bolt of lightning towards his opponent, but the Dunmer vanished before it struck. But Antario had learned from his observations. He cast two spells: the first hardened his flesh, the other set up a wall of flames around him in a circle. Then he waited with a concentrated bolt in his free hand, watching the fire for any break or shimmer.

Without a sound, the Dunmer appeared in mid-air, leaping over the flames. Antario slashed with his sword and loosed the lightning bolt, rolling to his left and through the fire, unharmed by his own spell.

He rose and dispelled the flames. The scorched Dunmer lay in the centre, bleeding from a cut across his chest. He spat blood and rose again. Antario prepared another spell, a long shaft of ice, but the Dunmer spasmed and he waited, expecting his foe to collapse. Instead, he transformed. His arms elongated, long claws appearing at the ends. Dark bat-wings sprouted from his back, and his face became a long-toothed monstrosity that Antario recognised: vampire lord. The creature hovered just above the ground for a moment, then raced forward.

Antario was thankful; vampires were much easier to deal with than invisible assassins. He prepared a huge fireball and sent it rolling towards the vampire lord, consuming it in flames. He sent another and another. The vampire screamed, its feet returning to the ground, its form shifting and twisting. It folded upon itself and the Dunmer reappeared, who screamed for one last time, then died.

Behind the rushing sounds of his own blood pumping through his body, Antario could faintly hear Boethiah clapping. He had no time to take a breath before he was thrust back through the air to his cage. He slumped to the ground, mopping sweat from his brow.

The next fight—the Breton and the Ka Po’Tun—played out as everyone surely anticipated. The little man did manage to get off a single bolt, but the Ka Po’Tun caught it in the air and crossed the arena before the Breton even had his hand in his quiver. His head was rolling in the arena a fraction later.

Then came the Tsaesci and the Argonian. Antario would have bet on the snake-folk had he been a gambling mer, but the Argonian delivered the greatest surprise of the tournament so far. As the Tsaesci scythed forward, the Argonian stood his ground as he had before. The twin swords of the Tsaesci slithered closer, but when contact came the Argonian pivoted to his right and guided his hammer into the Tsaesci’s head.

Changing angles at the last second, one of the snake’s swords still ended up embedded in the lizard’s side. There was a tussle of golden and black scales as the two fought, intertwined. The Tsaesci twisted the sword already within the Argonian’s flesh, trying to bring the other blade to bear. The Argonian was having none of it.

He pinned the Tsaesci’s right arm with a boot and delivered another shattering blow to his opponent’s head. His teeth gritted from the pain of the sword inside him, but he carried on, smashing the Tsaesci’s right arm, then its left, then its snout.

The lower body of the Tsaesci flickered from snake to legs and back again, but could not escape the Argonian’s weight. The hammer descended a final time. Hand pressed over his wide flowing wound, the Argonian was carried through the air back to his cage.

“ _Well_ ,” said Boethiah, their voice like they were passing on a secret code. “Wasn’t _that_ a _surprise!”_ In his cage, the Argonian grimaced and tore up his tunic to bandage his wound.

Four fighters remained. The Redguard, through to round three on only one easy fight. She stood at attention, nervously testing the sharpness of her sword, frequently glancing at the others. The Argonian, slumped against the bars of his cage, trying to stop his wound seeping through its makeshift bandage, his scaled and scarred torso now bare. The Ka Po’Tun, pacing impatiently in the small space his cage allowed. And Antario, arms folded, trying very hard not to believe anything that Boethiah said.

Antario breathed a sigh of relief that neither of the cages that opened were his. The Redguard and the Ka Po’Tun stepped into the arena. Antario eyed the Argonian, who was breathing heavily and wincing with each movement. He did not expect much resistance when their fight came, but vowed to be prepared nonetheless.

In the arena, the Ka Po’Tun moved once again with dazzling speed, attacking with a sideways slice from the right. The Redguard did something that Antario would have thought possible: she met the sword with her own and turned it away. The face of the Akaviri warrior was confused, and the Redguard saw it.

“Fighting that trigger-happy thug and shiny ponce won’t have prepared you for me, that’s for sure,” she said. She smashed into his face with her shield and delivered a quick stab to his upper left arm. He recoiled, jumping away across a distance that could not be covered by any upright creature on Tamriel. The next attack came from the Redguard, advancing with seemingly none of the fear Antario was sure he would have felt in her place.

She feinted high, then came in low, delivering a cut to the Ka Po’Tun’s leg. He hissed and brought his sword down. She raised her shield, but the blow carried enough force to turn the shield into a useless dented circle. She grunted and tossed it aside. The next cut took her left arm off at the elbow. She staggered back, staring at the stump in disbelief.

The Ka Po’Tun said something in his own language, then stepped forward and drove his sword two-handed through the Redguard’s chest. She gasped, gurgled blood, her body starting to ease forward. Her eyes flashed. She brought her scimitar up and hewed into the Ka Po’Tun’s neck. He roared, twisted his own sword and lifted her into the air with it. Her scream was nearly as loud as Boethiah’s earlier announcement. Airborne, blood gushing from her chest and bubbling from her mouth, the Redguard hacked again. Her sword went deep enough that he collapsed, losing his grip on his sword and crumpling into the pooling blood. He died, his eyes wide with disbelief.

The Redguard collapsed to the bloody surface of the arena and let out a choked laugh. She fell onto her side trying to pull the Akaviri sword from her chest. She grabbed it with both hands, looked up at the stormy sky, wrenched it free, and died.

The Argonian said something vehement in his own tongue.

Boethiah whistled appreciatively. “I _believe_ ,” they said, a smile spreading across their face, “that _means,_ we _must_ proceed to the _final round.”_ They clapped their hands. Antario and the Argonian stepped from their cages. All the cages now crumbled, the bodies of the past combatants turned to dust, and the blood was wiped from the arena.

Antario prepared a lightning spell as reflex. He was not looking forward to cutting down a wounded opponent. The Argonian almost collapsed as soon as he entered the arena, cradling his wound but still holding his hammer in his other hand. Antario realised there were several of the combatants he would have liked to speak to, perhaps share some mead with. No such luck in this life, he thought, no such small niceties in this realm, not under the watchful eye of Boethiah.

The Daedra in question floated in slow circles above the arena, waiting and watching.

The Argonian met Antario’s eyes and, to the latter’s surprise, smiled. A glowing light escaped from the black scales of his free hand, and his wound was healed. Antario cursed himself and launched his prepared lightning bolt.

The Argonian summoned a ward and the bolt dispersed harmlessly. Antario hardened his flesh and then tried a different tactic, one the Thalmor were fond of in battle. He summoned a storm atronach. Its rocky body swirled, connected by small bolts flashing back and forth. The creature began to loose lightning bolts at the Argonian at a furious pace, who blocked each other with his ward, although Antario could see it faltering.

Antario edged to the side, but his foe moved to prevent any surprise attacks. Antario summoned a new atronach, a flame one that was soon launching large fireballs at the Argonian, each exploding impact obscuring Antario’s view of his enemy.

Out of one of these blasts emerged the Argonian, roaring in fury, his ward down, his clothes aflame, attempting to shrug off the multiple spells. Antario reacted, casting a stream of ice that slow his foe’s pace drastically. He was then able to slip away from the Argonian’s sluggish strikes, step behind him and drive his sword through his back. The Argonian roared again and collapsed. Antario stood silently, trying to get his heart-rate under control, trying not to think about all the times chance had favoured him.

“ _Well, well, well,”_ said Boethiah, landing next to him. The Altmer dismissed his two atronachs and wiped his sword on his robes.

“Now will you close the gate?” he asked.

Boethiah pouted. “I was _going_ to ask you to be my _new champion,_ ” they said.

“I have no wish to be your champion,” replied Antario. “Are you able or willing to close the gate or not?”

“I _cannot,_ ” replied the Daedra. “ _I_ was not the one contacted to _open_ it.”

“Who was?”

Boethiah shrugged. “Dagon. Vile. Molag Bal. It’s their _usual_ pattern. I’m _not_ one for all-out _invasion.”_

Antario thought it over. If that was the case, he would be of more use back in Helgen, holding the line, especially if Gylhain was still in Oblivion. If indeed there was still a line to hold. It seemed an age since he’d stepped through the gate.

“Are you able to send me back the way I came in?” he inquired.

“If that’s what you _want,_ ” said Boethiah. “You _did_ win, after all.” They looked around the arena, went to one knee and ran a handful of dead contenders’ dust through their fingers. “Maybe I can _reform_ some of these,” they said. “Seems a _waste_ of good Chosen otherwise.”

“Can you send me back now?” asked Antario, trying not to let his impatience show.

“ _Oh_ , are you _still here?_ If you’re _not_ interested in your prize . . . it is _traditionally_ awarded to the _winner.”_ Boethiah drew a sword from thin air, curved like the Akaviri sword Antario already wielded, but with a golden blade.

Antario was loath to accept any gifts from demons, but found his principles were not as strong as Gylhain’s had become. He could feel the raw power radiating off the blade. He held out his hand and Boethiah summoned a black scabbard for the sword and handed it over.

“It is called _Goldbrand,”_ said the Daedra. “Wield it _well_ , Antario.”

The Daedra strode off across the arena and walked right off into the air. Antario felt a hooking and rushing sensation, like he was being hauled up a waterfall. The arena vanished, and he thrust back through the gate into Helgen, sprawling in the dirt.

Dar’epha helped him to his feet. “Nice sword,” she said. “Have to sell many souls for it?”

Antario appreciated the effort at light-heartedness as he looked around at the weary and bloodied defenders. “Thankfully, I am reasonably sure I still have hold of my own,” he said.


	42. Through Fog and Ash

Vash crossed through the gate and stepped into a realm he had only dream of seeing. He stood in an endless library, with shelves that stretched off into the dim distance. Each book had the same black cover, no titles, no indication of what knowledge lay inside. The floor was covered in loose pages and more floated in the air, drifting on some unfelt wind. More books rose in piles that defied gravity and logic, twisting and turning into columns, arches, bridges, towers. Moisture hung in the air with a sickly weight, and fog prevented him seeing more than a few metres. It was dark, the sky a dim expanse that seemed to slither uncomfortably as he looked at it. Vash knew he stood in Apocrypha, the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

He summoned a small ball of light to hover over his left shoulder. It let him see his way and, more importantly, to read. He snatched a page out of the air and scanned it eagerly.

“ _. . . but as early as I can remember he’s had a fascination with this. He talks about the nature of shadow, rambling on past, present, and future. The others have all left now. I know I should leave too, I know that’s what you’d tell me if you were here, but I can’t. He needs . . .”_

The page faded into unreadable damp. Vash remembered reading some investigation into shadows, although it seemed years since he’d been at the College. What a boon this eternal library could be to his own institution! The good they could do with such knowledge was impossible to measure. He let go of the page and it resumed its fluttering. He reached for a random book, plucked it off the shelf and ran his fingers down the black cover. The texture made him shiver. He opened to the first page and began to read.

“ _In the first, that there will be some to reconise our actions. In the second, that the fruits of our labor will not be wasted. In the third, to prevent such an ocurance from ocuring again. Thus, here are listed the artefacts recovered.”_

Vash rolled his eyes disapprovingly at the spelling mistakes. The rest of the book, he saw, flicking rapidly through the pages, seemed to be a catalogue of these ‘artefacts’. Where this hoard was actually located appeared to have been neglected from the tome. He put the book back and took the next one.

“ _We arrived on the third, despite the captain’s best efforts at delaying us. I have become convinced that he is an agent working against us, and have warned Jagan to keep an eye on him. Whether the foolish boy will heed my advice is a different matter, of course. We set up camp and have done little more than preliminary examinations of the entrance to the ruins, but what we have discovered looks promising. Ages have passed since anyone has been inside this place! Tomorrow we will attempt to get the door open.”_

Vash put the book back, losing interest. Another foolish unprepared explorer delving into the deeps. No doubt the account would be abruptly cut off before the end. He turned away and walked down the aisle he had found himself in, roaming aimlessly. Occasionally he found an intersection, corridors meeting in the labyrinth, and he would take one at random. Sometimes the halls would be straight, sometimes curved and the floor would rise and fall as if breathing. On one occasion, he had to wait for a moving bridge to carry him across greenish murky water that moved with the tentacles of unknown horrors. Vash kept his hovering light lit, reading snippets from books at random.

Eventually he came to a circular roofless room that seemed like a dead end. A single eerie torch hung above a small table, the walls still full of shelves and books. More books were piled on the table in a disorganised fashion, and Vash took the one from the top.

_“I sent the Brother around the side to distract the housemaid. He put on his usual charm and the two of them had soon vanished into a darkened corner of the garden. Jo was about to make a lewd comment before I signalled silence. The two of us swung through the trees until we were as close to the house as we could get. Jo got out her grappling hook and hit the chimney on her first try. She tied the other end to a branch and crawled across. I followed hurriedly. The great ruby of House Dres awaited us.”_

Vash smiled. A daring heist; Dar’epha would have liked this one. He was suddenly overtaken with a feeling of intense nausea. He remember why he was there: to close the gate. Wandering the halls of Apocrypha, it had completely vanished from his mind. He felt ashamed. How much time had he wasted? And how long had the others being holding the line back in Helgen?

He considered his options. Hermaeus Mora’s usual method was not for full invasion. But his attention could be attracted, surely. The Daedric Prince was clearly aware that Vash was within the realm, but Vash needed to engage with him directly.

When Vash hit upon the answer, it made him slightly sad. But he steeled himself. How many souls had been lost to these halls of forbidden knowledge, how many would never see the sun of Tamriel again? Vash loosed flames from both palms and set about burning as many books as he could reach.

He’d barely finished with the circular room when a roar came from above. His fires were quenched, and the tentacles descended, curling and slithering over every surface. A mass of the slimy things congregated above a shelf, dozens of eyes emerging from the mass to focus on Vash.

“Archmage,” breathed the Lord of Secrets. His voice was low and flat, almost a monotone. “You have become a great disappointment to me.”

“Can you close the gate?” demanded Vash. He refused to look away from the hideous visage.

“I would not even if I could,” said Hermaeus Mora. “And you do not belong here; you have made that abundantly clear. You belong with your own kind. The outcasts. The cursed. The spurned. Here, meet your true lord, for it is not I.”

A multitude of tentacles reached for Vash and he saw only darkness.

* * *

 

When he became aware again, Vash gro-Nul saw only swirls of thick ash, moving as though in a light breeze. He also realised that he was falling and choking at the same time. He coughed hoarsely and held his breath, casting a quick levitation spell to halt his descent. He righted himself, suspended in the seemingly unending choking void. Then he began to work on a new spell. He’d dabbled with it theoretically but never attempted to actually use it—he’d never had the need for it. To breathe in the void, he modified a waterbreathing spell. The basic concepts of filtration were the same, he simply needed to adapt it. By the time he was done, his lungs were aching for air. He cast, and inhaled deeply.

The modified spell worked perfectly. He noticed it would even drain his magicka at a slower rate than a normal waterbreathing spell would. Balancing the two spells with his reserves, he slowly turned in a circle, examining the realm Hermaeus Mora had banished him to. An eternal blackness stretched in every direction, the ash swirling of its own accord. Sometimes as a particular cloud gusted past or around him, Vash could hear whispered words on the wind.

“ _No way I’m gonna split this between the two of us.”_

_“Fuckin milk-drinker, shoulda seen it comin.”_

_“No, how could he? How could he!?”_

Vash knew where he was: the Ashpit, realm of Malacath, Daedric Prince of Curses and the Spurned, venerated by the Orcs all over Tamriel. Morian Zenas had described it exactly as Vash saw it then, to his apprentice Seif-ij Hidja, who had recorded his master’s experiences in the book _The Doors of Oblivion._

Vash floated forward. Morian had never encountered Malacath, and his descriptions of the realm had been vague at best, but perhaps Vash would be luckier. He had the advantage of being one the Daedra’s people, after all.

He floated on. Occasionally, the ash would form into the semblance of some ferocious creature, a beast that would rear before Vash in the void and bear down upon him. A single burst of flame was all it took to scatter them apart again.

An uncountable period of time passed before he sighted anything other than ash clouds. A jutting spire of rock came into view, extending endlessly both up and down. As Vash floated closer, hoping for somewhere to land, he espied a cave opening. The closer he got, the larger he realised the spire was. It was monolithic, without a doubt the largest structure he had ever seen. He could not even comprehend its breadth, let alone its height. It would have made the Throat of the World appear closer to the size of a child’s plaything.

Floating towards the dark cleft in the rock, he landed just inside the entrance. The passage was dark and twisted, so Vash once more summoned a glowing ball of light, sending it just ahead of him as a guide. As he rounded the first corner, his cancelled his breathing spell, the ash storms remaining outside. Relief cascaded through his bones as his magicka was free to regenerate. The passage steepened, steps appearing, chiselled out of the solid rock. They spiralled upwards and he followed. Heavy with exhaustion, Vash arrived at the top.

He was still inside the spire, as far as he could tell. The walls were still of that same black rock, although a ceiling was not visible, not matter how much he craned his neck. The ground had turned to a deep soil and before stretched a harsh, yet beautiful garden. Huge pines stretched up into the cavern, shafts of rock jutted from the ground ringed by ferns. There were no flowers; green and brown were the dominant colours. Soft grey light came from directly above, though it was slightly chilly.

Vash stepped forward warily and followed a winding trail, marvelling at how different the environment was from the whirling ash clouds outside. After perhaps ten minutes of walking, he came to a campfire. A tent was pitched between two trees and a mountain of an orc sat on a stump, gently turning a heavily-loaded spit over a fire. He had a knotted white beard and shaggy white hair. He was dressed simply in a brown tunic and pants, but a full set of massive orcish armour sat in a pile on his left, including a broadsword significantly taller than Vash, within easy reach. This, he knew at once, was Malacath.

“Vash gro-Nul,” uttered the Lord of the Spurned. His voice was deep, his manner direct. “Sit. Restore yourself. The Pit is unkind to visitors.”

Vash looked around and saw there was another tree stump to the right of the Prince. He sat, unsure of what to expect. Malacath turned his spit and Vash tapped his finger on his knee nervously.

“Mora kicked you out,” said Malacath. It wasn’t a question. “It happens. Orsimer messing in some Prince’s realm, they kick ’em here.” He gave the spit a final spin, then took it off the fire. He slid the pieces of meat onto a large wooden platter that Vash wouldn’t have been surprised if Malacath had carved himself, the old-fashioned way. The huge orc placed the platter between himself and Vash, drew a knife from his belt and jabbed a piece. He tore of large sections with his teeth; orc teeth were good for eating meat.

“Help yourself,” said Malacath after his first big swallow. Vash did so. For a time the only sounds were the crunch of teeth and rending of meat. Malacath ate at least three times as much as Vash did, but made no comment on it. The Daedra wiped his mouth with a hand.

“I cannot close the gate in your Helgen,” he said. “That is Dagon’s work, not mine.”

Vash nodded in what he thought was an understanding manner. He only hoped that at least one of his companions had been more successful in their journey.

“I would,” continued Malacath, “like to ask a favour of you.”

“Of course,” said Vash. There didn’t seem to be any other thing to say. He was also unsure how to address Malacath. By name seemed inappropriate. As a Prince? ‘My lord’? For now Vash would simply avoid the issue as best he could.

“The orcs in Skyrim are hurting,” explained Malacath. “Their lot has not improved. I want you to help them. Your position of authority will be useful. They will survive, of course. They are orcs. But you need to purge the weak and let the strong rule.”

“Will they accept my authority?” asked Vash, mentally cataloguing the orc strongholds in Skyrim. Dushnikh Yal, in the south of the Reach. Narzulbur, high in the mountains east of Windhelm. Largashbur, at the south end of the Rift. And Mor Khazgur, in the far north-west of Skyrim. He had paid visits to the first, but not the others.

Malacath frowned. “They will,” he pronounced with finality. “I will tell them of your coming. You’ll do it?”

“Of course,” repeated Vash. If he was being honest with himself, he had neglected his fellow orcs, what with all his College work and adventuring with the Dragonborn. It would do him good to see his own people again. “But I will not sacrifice my position as Archmage.”

“I would not ask you to,” said Malacath.

“I . . . my only concern is that I won’t have enough time to devote to this cause as it deserves,” managed Vash, phrasing his sentences carefully now.

Malacath frowned again and Vash tensed. But when the big orc spoke he said, “This is fair. I will attempt to provide you with some assistance.”

Vash nodded, too timid to ask what form this assistance would take. “I’m surprised you would pick me for something like this,” he said in a moment of boldness. “I thought you prized physical strength over all. It’s why I left Orsinium in the first place.”

Malacath stood. “Strength of magic is still strength,” he said. “As is strength of the mind. Would you have survived the Pit without either? With just the strength of the body? No. Against many foes, the body is not enough.”

Vash knew the truth of this better than most. He stood as well; it seemed impolite to sit while the god-king of the orcs stood. He pondered his options.

“Can you send me to one of my friends? Or tell me where they are?” he asked.

Malacath shook his head, his expression darkening. “I cannot,” he said, his voice treading around the edges of a lost hope. “Short of banishing my people here, the Daedra refuse to acknowledge my existence.”

Vash nodded and reached under his hood to scratch his scalp. It seemed appropriate. Malacath was the master of the spurned, after all. “If you would, then . . . send me back to Helgen?” he asked.

Malacath nodded and extended his hand. The two shook, Vash’s hand almost lost in the massive grip of the other.

“Fair you well, Archmage,” said Malacath. “I will be watching.”

Vash felt himself become lighter. Whether it was the shock of meeting two Daedra in such a short time starting to sink in, or the crushing grip of Malacath, he never had time to determine. The world went black, then light again, and he found himself standing on the Helgen side of the gate. He stepped quickly away from it and surveyed the arrayed group before him. They lowered their weapons upon recognising him.

There seemed to be fewer defenders than when he had left. Dar’epha and Antario approached him. “Any luck?” the Khajiit asked.

“No,” he replied, looking them over. Dar’epha seemed as she had been, but Antario’s robes were singed, torn, and bloody, as if he’d been through some horrendous battle. “Gylhain hasn’t returned?” he asked.

“No,” said Antario. “Nor has Kara.” He gestured towards the Keep. “Falin is tending to the injured. Kureeth has command of the defence.”

Vash was only momentarily surprised. Kureeth was solid enough to follow, he wondered only at his reluctance to speak having an impact on orders. Antario moved slowly away to a group of the others.

Dar’epha grabbed Vash’s shoulder before he could take a step, however, bringing her face close to his.

“Didn’t make any deals with any Daedra, did ya?” she whispered. “Only ask ’cause your beard’s turned grey.”

Vash grimaced. The consequence of the Ashpit, he supposed. No time to find a reflective surface now. “Only one to add to my burdens,” he said.

Dar’epha pressed her eyes closed, radiating tiredness. “Ain’t that always the way?” she said.


	43. Choice and Consequence

Kara crossed through the gate and at once felt out of place. She was standing in front of a highly ornamental metal gate, intricate patterns woven into it. It was fixed into a high brick wall that was overgrown with creeping plants, many of which flowered in shades of white, yellow, and blue. Her dirty orcish armour, with its bloodstains and savage points, had never been more incongruous. She lowered her sword, against her better judgement, and was on the verge of pushing through the gate when it opened for her.

A white-faced man appeared, with a small garden of horns growing on his head instead of hair. He wore fine but simple clothes, all black with white trimmings. His expression never moved.

“Ah, Mistress Stormblade, is it?” he said in an exaggerated Cyrodiilic accent. “Come in, come in. Lord Vile has been expecting you.” He looked her up and down and made a tsking noise. “I would ask you to change, but Lord Vile insisted you be brought to him as soon as you arrived. Come, follow me.”

He stepped aside, allowing Kara to reach the other side of the wall. An extraordinary garden was revealed, with bushes trimmed into the exact shapes of animals of all kinds. She spotted a frostbite spider, each leg perfectly clipped out of foliage. A troll, a sabrecat, even a huge dragon were also among the displays. Kara followed the horned man along small winding gravel paths, bordered with beautiful flower displays, tables laden with delicate refreshments expertly placed at spaced distances. The man led her around groups of green-and-blue faced creatures; all dressed in exquisite tunics and robes of the finest quality, no two the same. They all seemed to be engaged in a veneer of light conversation, laughter occasionally rippling across the garden. Kara realised she’d arrived at a garden party.

“When you said Lord Vile,” she said, “Did you mean Clavicus Vile? The Daedric Prince?”

The manservant—for this was the role she presumed he held—threw her a look of disdain over his shoulder as they walked. “Of course,” he said, his voice laced with barely contained condescension. As they would past the other guests, many of them looked at Kara with disgust. She felt herself shrink inside and wished for invisibility.

As they rounded a plant-sculpture of a highly toothed reptile Kara did not recognise, a low building came into view, composed entirely out of glass. It was but a single storey, but was highly elaborate, with swirling coloured patterns and images in the glass walls, depicting things that Kara could not catch sense of. The manservant opened a glass door and ushered her inside, following after her and closing the door.

Sitting on a small chair inside was a small man with two small horns growing from his brow. He was slightly portly, and had a permanent smile. The shaggiest dog Kara had ever seen napped next to him.

“Ah, Kara!” said Clavicus Vile, his face lighting up. “Welcome to my humble abode.” Looking around, Kara saw that it was anything but. Thick drapes covered the glass walls, embroidered with endless patterns that could not be followed with the naked eye. The carpet too was of a similar kind. The glass ceiling however was left bare, letting an enormous amount of light in, and allowing a clear view of an empty blue sky, as the glass above was neither coloured not patterned.

“Quite nice, isn’t it?” said Vile, clapping his hands together. “Of course, it used to be much bigger. That’s where you come in.”

Kara frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked. “I only came through to close the gate. In Helgen.”

“Ah, yes,” said Vile, scratching his dog behind the ears. “The gate. Dagon’s work, I’m afraid. Yes, nothing I can do. Clumsy job on the Thalmor’s part, hmm? Fits Dagon’s usual tone perfectly. Wonderful to see, though. No, our mutual friend Gylhain will have to sort that one out.”

“You know the Dragonborn?” asked Kara. Gylhain said she’d dealt with most of the Princes, but Vile? He was notorious for making deals that would come back and bite you.

“Oh yes, we all got along quite well, didn’t we, Barbas?” said Vile, addressing the dog.

“Yes,” said the dog. Kara flinched; its voice was loud and grating, its tone far too eager. “She returned me to my master.”

“She spurned my gifts, though,” said Vile, still smiling. “She spurned all of our gifts. Some of us were quite put out.”

“Us?” inquired Kara, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“The Princes,” explained Vile. “Dagon was furious, enough to get first rights.” At that point Vile giggled a little, as it all of it was just a big joke. “Vaermina was terribly angry too. Bal has talked of little else for months. No, Gylhain is with Dagon now, and I can’t imagine she’s having a particularly good time of it.”

“What about you?” asked Kara. The Prince before her was either feeling no rage at all, or else was extremely skilled at hiding it.

“Hmm,” said Vile. “Jagon, what did Gylhain do with my Masque?” He looked up at the horned manservant who had shown Kara in, who had been standing perfectly still by the door in the interval.

“I believe she threw it in the Sea of Ghosts,” said Jagon, bowing slightly.

Vile shrugged. “I’ll get it back eventually.” His smile spread wider. “Which brings me to why you’re here. I have a proposition for you.”

Kara’s first reaction was hostility. She took a step back, moving both hands to her sword, but Vile spoke quickly.

“You’d like to be a better fighter, wouldn’t you?” he said. Kara stopped, lowered the point of her blade again, and listened. “I can give you that,” Vile went on. “Power and victory, without all that pesky learning and training that takes so long.”

Kara frowned again. A tempting bargain, but they always were. She’d always felt inadequate on the battlefield. She had thought, however, that she was at least somewhat competent until that day by Lake Ilinalta when she’d challenged the Dragonborn. To see someone so masterful, so extraordinarily skilled, who could treat her as merely an inconvenience, had shattered her sense of self-worth. And the recent days, where Gylhain had shrugged off hordes as a minor diversion, had not helped. No, beginning with that day by the lake, she had wished to be a better fighter, no matter all her distractions in the alchemy shop. More precisely, she wished to be as good as the Dragonborn.

“What’s in it for you?” asked Kara.

Vile waved a hand dismissively. “For one month of the year, you serve me,” he said. “The rest of the year, do as you will. The tasks I ask of you shall be small, trivial, well within your enhanced capabilities.” Kara remained silent and so Vile spoke on. “You will not age,” he said, “and diseases shall pass you by. You will be stronger and faster than any mortal that walks Tamriel. You will be a legend, closer to god than woman.”

Kara tried to think of an intelligent question, and failed. A tiny bit of dirty work for Vile for one month, the free to do as she wished for the rest of the year. A god, he’d said. Immortality. She wished Antario was there; he would have been able to poke holes in the deal that she knew were there but could not find.

“Which month?” she asked. Everything she’d ever wanted, right in the palm of her hand.

“Morning Star,” replied Vile, his smile widening. He knew he had her.

Morning Star was still six months away, reasoned Kara. Plenty of time to assess if there was a way out of the deal, some loophole to escape through, if she didn’t end up liking her new power.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Excellent!” said Vile, extending his hand. They shook. Barbas looked at her with big eyes and went back to his snoozing. Kara clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling some heavy change come over her. Vile kept smiling.

“Would you like to give your new power a test?” he asked. She nodded warily. “Go back outside,” said Vile, “and eliminate my guests. They are a tedious bunch, after all.”

Kara turned, and Jagon held the door open for her. The weight of her sword felt substantially less, as did her armour. She could move almost as if she was unencumbered. Either Vile had played some trick . . . or she really was stronger.

The demons in their fine clothes had fallen silent as she exited the glass building. All eyes were on her and her drawn sword. As one, the demons downed their drinks, cast aside their glasses, and came at Kara. She went to meet them.

Her sword carved the first one in half and sent black blood arcing through the air. She found she could now wield her huge ebony blade with one hand, leaving the other free to punch and grab. Slashing with the sword, she grasped one demon by its collar and slammed it into the ground. When she stomped on its head it burst like a grape. The pack around her was vanquished in seconds, and she ran to meet the next, realising she could move faster than she had ever dreamed of. She leapt over the hedge dragon and landed in the midst of the oncoming demons, flailing wildly with her sword. She was soon covered in black blood.

The garden silent, Vile, Barbas, and Jagon exited the glass building to survey her work. Vile’s grin was the widest yet.

“Marvellous!” he said, throwing his small arms wide. “You’ve done so well. See you next Morning Star!”

The world shimmered, and she was thrown with great speed through the gate and into Helgen. She slammed into the dirt but rose without damage.

Dar’epha, Vash, and Antario greeted her, their eyes widening at the sheer amount of dark gore staining her armour and sword.

“What happened to you?” asked Dar’epha.

Kara clenched her hands tightly and sheathed her sword, turning away from her comrades. She realised then the curse: her prodigious strength would easily wreak havoc on her friends as well as her enemies if she was not careful. Not only that, but she would be marked an abomination, a freak.

“Nothing,” she said, knowing her lie was poor. “Gylhain not back?” She wondered how she’d fare against the Dragonborn now, and instantly knew it was a fight she could never allow herself to have.

Vash shook his head. “She is the last,” he said. “Although there have been no demons through the gate for a long while now.”

“How long have I been gone?” asked Kara.

“Hours,” replied Antario. “It is almost dawn.”


	44. The Unwavering Line

There was silence in the night for a moment after the five had stepped through the gate: Gylhain, Dar’epha, Vash, Antario, and Kara. Helgen was quiet, lit by the pulsing flames of the way to Oblivion. Their hero had vanished, leaving them leaderless. Kureeth looked at those remaining and struggled to remember their names.

There were many who led in their own little worlds: Brynjolf in the Guild, Aela in the Companions, Rikke in the Legion. But all were looking at him. Perhaps it was the association with the Dragonborn that led to it. Perhaps it was the dragonscale armour splattered with blood, or the way he had acquitted himself in the fight so far. Or perhaps, as Falin proposed later, he had the bearing of a leader whether he wanted it or not.

“Detect Life,” he said, every word unwilling. There were some frowns, but the mages present understood immediately. That spell was the easiest way to discover if there were any more Thalmor hiding in the town. Kureeth pointed at Brelyna and several of the Guild.

“Clear the Keep,” he said. It was entirely possible they’d missed some foes on the rushed way up. “Wounded, in there.”

The designated moved through the open doors into the Keep. Falin rounded up the worst of the wounded and followed after. Kureeth frowned at the efficiency with which his orders were being followed. He directed archers and mages to the walls and roofs; their focus now entirely on the gate. He formed the remaining warriors around him and took a position in the centre of the line.

“We hold,” he said. He inhaled smoothly and waited for the next wave.

* * *

 

Irileth had taken a sword to her upper left arm. Propped up on a bed in the first room of the Keep, Falin probed the wound with both fingers and magic. It was deep, but clean.

“How’s the pain?” she asked.

“Damn the pain,” said Irileth. “Can you fix it?”

Falin nodded and got to work. Her golden magic flowed down her arms and into the wound. It slowed blood flow and knitted tendons. It removed particles of metal—elven make, from the feel of it—and stretched the skin across. Falin wiped the blood with a rag.

“Thanks,” said Irileth. “I have to get back out there.” She hesitated, sword back in hand. “Your husband’s a fucking juggernaut, you know.”

Falin made a bitter smile, already turning to the next patient: Rune, suffering from a broken leg in a fight with a Thalmor.

“Give it to me honest,” he said. “Are my days of jumpin off rooftops done?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” she said. “I can fix your leg, it just might take a while. And you won’t be able to do any thieving for a while until it heals properly.”

Run adopted a tragic expression. “A steep price to pay,” he said, “but I will somehow muster the strength to get through.”

It was then that a Legion soldier stumbled in, Hulgar, Falin thought, supported by one of the brothers of the Companions—Falin could not tell them apart. Burns covered much of the soldier’s right side and he was clearly trying not to scream in agony.

“Deal with him,” said Rune. “My leg can wait.”

Falin nodded and moved to take the wounded man from his ally. She could tell there would more like him before the night was done.

* * *

 

There was a break after the first wave, but Kureeth knew they could not count on it lasting very long. He let them rest in those crucial moments, but could think of nothing to say to them that they could not have already thought of themselves. Brelyna and the Guild members who’d been with her exited the Keep.

“It’s clear,” she said. “Though Sapphire stayed to help Falin. Etienne took a gut wound; there was a pack of them hiding in a storeroom.”

Kureeth nodded, feeling he should say something. “Good,” he managed. “Can you manage the rest of the town?”

Brelyna frowned. “Yes, I—”

It was then that Dar’epha fell back through the gate. Brynjolf crossed the distance to her in a moment and dragged her upright. He said something Kureeth couldn’t hear and they rejoined the others.

“I’m the first back?” asked the Khajiit. Kureeth nodded.

“Could you help Brelyna?” he asked.

“Clearing the town,” clarified the Dunmer mage in question.

“Oh, sure,” said Dar’epha. She twisted her neck like she was looking to crack it, but no sound came. “There wasn’t nearly ’nough fightin on that side for me.” She started to move off with Brelyna.

“Wait,” said Rikke. “Did you find out how to close the gate?”

Kureeth was glad that for that moment all eyes were on Dar’epha instead of him.

“No,” said the thief. “Think I ended up in a different place to everyone else. And there ain’t no way I’m gonna go back in. Might end up somewhere less nice this time.”

Any further questions were cut short as the second wave began. Kureeth clenched his fists and gestured for Dar’epha to go. They all had their tasks. His was to hold the line.

* * *

 

Etienne’s gut wound caused rising panic in Falin. Her magicka reserves were running low and the spell she needed was complicated. She turned to Sapphire, who’d volunteered as her assistant without being asked.

“Did you see any magicka potions while you were looking around?” she asked.

Sapphire’s face went distant for a moment. “I think so,” she said. She dashed off, deeper into the Keep, at a pace that Falin thought would be useful in escaping irate guards. She turned back to her patients.

She weaved what she could for Etienne’s pain and waited, conserving what she had.

“Running on empty, eh?” said Rune, still with his leg unhealed. His waiting had been bereft of complaints, however, as more serious wounds took priority. Falin nodded. “We all will be soon enough,” Rune added.

Sapphire dashed back in with an armful of potions, which she dumped on the table. Falin downed two in quick succession and immediately sent her tendrils of magic towards Etienne. She was unsure of the precise arrangements of someone’s innards, but everything seemed to more or less have its own place to sit. She salved and repaired the obvious damages, and relied on the magic to make the decision where she was unsure. It took until there was sweat dripping off her brow, but eventually, trying to ignore the roars of battle coming from outside, Etienne’s stomach was closed.

Sapphire darted around, lighting more lanterns and making sure Rune and Hulgar were comfortable. The legionnaire’s burns had been treated efficiently, but there was significant scar tissue and the pain defied even Falin’s attempts to quench it. Sapphire brought the man mead—the best they could do.

It was then that one of the brothers of the Companions entered, hauling the other. Blood streamed from a deep cut on his face and his left eye looked beyond salvaging. He was transferred to a bed and his brother knelt beside him.

“Come on, Vilkas,” said Farkas. Vilkas spat blood and groaned.

“There’s nothing you can do here,” said Falin, holding a hand out for another potion. Sapphire provided it immediately.

“But—” said Farkas.

“But nothing,” said Falin. “You can serve him best by getting out there and holding the line.” She pointed towards the door, her sleeves stained with blood.

Farkas straightened. He made long strides towards the door and they could hear his roar as he charged back into the fight. Falin cut herself off from exterior sounds for a while after that, and lost herself in her work. She’d fixed Rune’s leg and stabilised Vilkas before two figures entered: Dar’epha and Antario.

Sapphire made the distance to Dar’epha and embraced her. Falin was too weary to smile.

“Did you close the gate?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, we did not,” said Antario. He sported many signs of battle, and a new golden sword at his hip. Falin could feel the power pulsing off it. “Kara, Vash, and Gylhain have still not returned. It appears we may have all leapt into different planes of Oblivion.”

“Are you wounded?” asked Falin, looking him up and down.

Antario shook his head. “But you should rest,” he said. “I am able to manage here for a time.”

Falin sat in a provided chair, but did not relent. “No,” she said. “Nobody is going to die today, not if I can help it.”

* * *

 

The third wave was much smaller than the previous two. But weary as they were, Kureeth’s line still took damage. Uthgerd was hauled away, barely breathing after charging one of the larger reptilian creatures on her own. Iona’s left hand was crushed possibly beyond repair. Another Legion soldier, Vodus—Kureeth had a handle on their names now—died before a dremora onslaught. And Faralda snapped something in her spine when a fireball—resisted by a ward—still had enough power to knock her from the wall on which she stood.

The wounded were taken into Falin, and Kureeth knew that his own exhaustion would be nothing compared to that of his wife. But the wave of enemies faded away, and silence fell over the ruined town.

An hour stretched on and Kureeth still kept his defenders on alert. A limping Rune appeared and distributed mead to them all. Kureeth waved away the offer, his own mouth stained with the salty taste of blood.

They were almost beginning to relax when Vash reappeared. His beard was stained an ash grey and his movements were heavy, but he seemed otherwise uninjured. He spoke quietly with Dar’epha, then began to move among the defenders, speaking to those he knew and quietly healing minor cuts and burns. Kureeth wondered at the depths of the Archmage’s magicka pool and conceded that there was probably much Falin could learn from him.

Still no more enemies emerged and still the eye of the gate pulsed. Dawn was stretching closer when Kara slammed through the gate, a weighty thud marking her landing. She rose seemingly without being aware of it, and spoke with the others they had travelled with. She evaded direct questions and sat apart from the others on a piece of rubble, running her hands over her sword and staring into space.

The light grew stronger and the lack of answers made the defenders unsettled. Kureeth could calm dissent with a look, but he could not combat the underlying sentiment: the gate was still open, the Dragonborn not yet returned. Clearly none could leave while either condition prevailed.

Vash and Dar’epha held a hushed conference, then came to Kureeth. Seeing the congregation, Antario joined them.

“We’re goin back in,” said Dar’epha. “Somethin’s gone wrong.”

“We won’t ask any of you to come with us,” said Vash.

“Suicide,” said Kureeth.

“Our friend is correct,” said Antario, thankfully taking up the point, saving Kureeth from further talk. “We all ended up in different planes of Oblivion, against our will. How are we to determine the Dovahkiin’s location? Getting ourselves to that location would be inexplicably difficult even if we did know. You might get separated again, further away from one another, and may not have such great luck in escaping this time. I know that I stand here entirely due to the roll of chance.”

“Maybe,” said Dar’epha, crossing her arms. “But we gotta try. You comin or not?”

Antario fingered his new sword. “No,” he said. “I do not favour my luck in surviving another journey through those twisted realms.”

Dar’epha and Vash turned away towards the gate. At that moment there was a shudder in the eye of it and a distant roar.

“Havin second thoughts?” asked Dar’epha to Vash.

The Archmage frowned and flexed his arms. “Yes,” he said. “But let’s go, before they start to multiply.”


	45. Know Your Enemy

Gylhain crossed through the gate and saw exactly what she had expected. She stood at the base of a twisted tower with a monolithic grand hall. Behind her, the gate still pulsed. An uncertain exit, but an exit nonetheless. At the far end of the hall there was a large spiral stair, wide enough for ten people to walk abreast. It extended up into the otherwise hollow building.

Gylhain knew she stood in the Deadlands, the realm of Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Destruction. The floor seemed to be made of hardened lava, blackened and bare. The walls and ceiling were twisted, sickening shades of brown and red, dotted with spikes and elaborate arches. The entire place seemed in serious disrepair.

From the spiral stair descended a small horde of lesser daedra, aiming for the gate to resume their assault on Tamriel. More precisely, on Gylhain’s friends. The dremora with their spiked armour, some carrying huge daedric blades, others preparing fireballs. Hordes of scamps, small brown creatures that moved fast and overwhelmed their foes with numbers. More of the flying bat-monsters, their talons ready to descend on the unwary. And Gylhain saw bigger creatures, scaled reptilian beasts with crests of spikes and gnashing teeth, three times her own height.

She charged across the room towards them. None of her comrades followed after her and she felt her teeth press hard against each other. It became evident that the demons had no interest in defeating her, only in getting past and through the gate. With that advantage, she was able to cut down many, her scimitar scything left and right in the mass of bodies at the base of the stairs. It wasn’t long before she was drenched in blood and ash, slamming into enemies with all her frantic might, seeking to stop as many as she could from getting through. She cursed herself for using her Voice so soon before jumping through the gate; it would not be ready again for some time.

But mighty as she was, the Dragonborn could not be everywhere at once. For every foe she downed, three got past her. She considered pursuing them, returning to Helgen and her friends, but knew she must go onwards, seek a way to close the gate. There was a break, and the wave was done. Gylhain breathed deeply, relishing the moment of silence. Then she began to climb the spiral stairs.

She had ascended the equivalent of a dozen flights when another wave began. This time, Gylhain was able to use the width of the stairs to her advantage. She lost her scimitar in the back of one of the scaled beasts, wrenched from her hand as the enemy rolled down the stairs in its death throes, taking out more on its way down. Gylhain grinned under her ebony helmet, drew Dawnbreaker, and threw herself back into the fray. The blazing strikes of that blade were effective against the demonic beasts of the Deadlands, and she was sure less of the wave made it through.

Faced with the third wave, running up the stairs two at a time some twenty flights higher, Gylhain felt the return of her Voice. She unleased the first Shout the Greybeards had taught her: Unrelenting Force. Her enemies went flying off the stairs, many falling to their deaths in the great hall below. Bats were dashed against the spikes that dotted the walls. She set upon the remnants with Dawnbreaker, delivered quick short strikes, expending no more energy than necessary. Even less made it to the gate that time.

She raced up the last stretch and reached the top. There she discovered that she stood not upon a roof, but at ground-level; she had been fighting her way up a gigantic basement. She could see the red and orange sky, the black spires of rock shooting up from the lava, the islands in the bubbling molten sea. She approached Mehrunes Dagon.

The Lord of Destruction was red-skinned, bare-chested, and twice as large as any mortal. Twisted horns escaped his brow, and all four of his arms were folded. With every exhalation, smoke drifted out of his nostrils. His throne looked to have been carved out of the black hard lava that made up the only solid pieces of landscape in sight.

“ _You dare tread my halls after what you have done?_ ” asked Dagon. His voice emanated from every pore of the realm. Gylhain had to cringe as the all-consuming bellow reached her ears.

“Close the gate,” she demanded. She levelled Dawnbreaker at the Prince. “Or I will bring your realm to its knees.”

“ _You do not have that power!”_ bellowed Dagon. “ _You spurned my gifts, the gifts of all my kind. Be glad I got to you first and you are not losing your sanity in the depths of the Quagmire! Here, you will face merely death.”_

Gylhain gestured to her bloodsoaked blade, to her stained and battered ebony armour. “I took out an army’s worth of your sycophants on my way up here,” she said. “What makes you think I can’t take whatever you can throw at me?”

Dagon grinned, a hideous sight full of rotting pointed teeth. “ _Face my champion,”_ he said.

From behind the throne emerged a huge Imperial, his muscles bulging under his scaled black armour, made of a material that Gylhain could not determine the origins of. As Gylhain watched, the Champion donned a matching full-faced helmet. His shield was the same, rounded with jagged edges, his longsword viciously toothed.

Gylhain recognised the shadow of a man within this Champion, but one long ago corrupted by offers of power and immortality. The Dragonborn knew that Dawnbreaker, despite its daedric origins, would prove very effective against such a foe. Meridia cared not whether the undead the blade struck down were born of one of her fellow Princes.

The Champion advanced, overzealous, his blade coming down too quickly. Gylhain attempted to shrug it off with her glass shield, but the daedric blade came almost entirely through. Gylhain staggered, cast aside the now-useless defence, and delivered a return blow with Dawnbreaker that bounced off the Champion’s shield, but set it to burning and bubbling. The Champion cried out and fumbled to unbuckle it. Gylhain saw her moment and leaned in, hacking shortly at the Champion’s side. The Champion dropped his shield before the bubbling reached his hand, but screamed as the same phenomenon began occurring where Gylhain had struck.

Gylhain grimaced and struck again, this time at the Champion’s head. He screamed again and went down. The sword of Meridia came down, severing the head. The Champion’s body crumbled to ash.

“ _It is time you returned that weapon,_ ” said Dagon. Dawnbreaker was wrenched from Gylhain’s hand. It floated towards Dagon, who spun them around loosely in the air. “ _I shall return it to its owner, whom you have spurned.”_ Gylhain sighed. Mehrunes Dagon seemed to be a very one-note sort of demon.

A gap in the air opened. A pale feminine hand emerged from it to grasp the hilt of Dawnbreaker. Meridia, thought Gylhain. An age since that Daedra had hauled her into the air at her shrine, since her voice had issued forth from the beacon she’d found in a cave. The hand vanished and the gap closed. Gylhain drew her only remaining weapon: a dragonbone mace.

“I beat your champion,” she said. “Now close the gate.”

Dagon shook his head. _“You may defeat your enemies, but what of your friends?”_

The black earth cracked and six figures issued forth, arranged in a loose circle around Gylhain. The Dragonborn’s heart sunk as she recognised what Dagon had done. The figures were her companions, armed and armoured as they had been in Helgen. But their eyes were wrong, pulsing with red and black twisted energies. The way they stood was forced. Dar’epha, Vash, Antario, Kara, Falin, and Kureeth all stared at her, but it was not them.

“These are not my friends,” growled Gylhain. Her anger rose to unforseen heights.

“ _Are they not?”_ asked Dagon. “ _Perhaps they followed you, loyal as they are. Perhaps they found their way to me.”_

Gylhain nodded slowly, as if she was agreeing. In reality, her mind was running through the best way to defeat the twisted mirrors of her friends. Vash was the biggest threat; his magic could end the fight in an instant. So Gylhain pivoted, before that instant could take place. She committed what she knew was a grievous warrior’s error: she threw her weapon. The dragonbone mace spun once, impacted on Vash’s skull and knocked the orc mage into the lava. Unfortunately, the mace went with him.

As soon as the weapon was out of her hand, Gylhain had moved towards Falin. Getting hit with a paralysis spell like she was so fond of would have also ended the fight far too soon. She was on her in a heartbeat, slamming her left fist into Falin’s face. Gylhain knocked Falin back and wrenched Ysgramor’s Shield from her arm. A copy of Ysgramor’s Shield, Gylhain reminded herself.

With Falin scrambling on the ground, Gylhain slammed the edge of the shield into her throat. Red blood, not black, bubbled upwards, and her body did not turn to ash. One mage left. Gylhain turned, just in time to use the shield to block a lightning bolt from Antario and an arrow from Dar’epha.

Kara was on her next. Gylhain remembered fighting her that last time, on the shore of Lake Ilinalta. She remembered the reckless approaches, the savage attacks. There’d been improvement, but not enough to constitute a threat. Gylhain turned aside the first attack with her shield and positioned herself so that Dar’epha and Antario could not get any more shots from their current positions. Out of the corner of her eye, Gylhain saw Kureeth edging around, dragonscale-clad fists raised.

On Kara’s second strike, Gylhain pushed back with her shield and swept Kara’s feet out from under her at the same time. Gylhain pinned Kara’s wrist to the ground with a foot and stole her huge greatsword, dropped the shield. An arrow tried to find a gap in her armour and failed. A lightning bolt almost knocked her off her feet, but Gylhain left Kara where she was and swung the greatsword in a wide arc, impacting against Kureeth’s raised fists. The force of the blow cracked the armour and sent him sprawling.

Gylhain turned again and buried the greatsword in Kara’s chest. She screamed and died. Two lightning bolts came at her. One missed, but the other blasted on her torso and she suppressed a groan as the magic passed through her. More arrows bounced off her armour, struggling to find a weak spot. Gylhain retrieved Kara’s greatsword from her body and knew that had the fight been against her real friends, she would have been dead already a dozen times over.

She hacked at Kureeth’s face, the only open part of the Argonian’s armour, before delivering the blade like a lance in his neck. The blood spurted, but Kureeth did not make a sound, even in his death. Gylhain turned to see Dar’epha leaping through the air at her, her bow forgotten, two long daggers aimed at her throat and heart.

She swept the greatsword through the air, cutting deep into Dar’epha’s side and disrupting her trajectory. The Khajiit slammed into the ground and Gylhain buried the sword in her chest as she had done with Kara. Only the mirrored Antario remained, standing well out of sword-reach, his Akaviri sword in his right hand, spells launching from the other.

A fireball engulfed Gylhain. She felt her armour become a veritable furnace, felt the impossible heat wash over her and the enchantments strain against the attack. She ran towards Antario, weaponless, the greatsword still embedded in Dar’epha. A series of bolts fizzled on her armour, not even slowing her progress.

Antario attempted to bring his sword to bear, but Gylhain grabbed his wrist and crushed it with a gauntleted fist. She caught the sword as her foe dropped it and swept it across, severing Antario’s head.

The Dragonborn stood, breathing heavily, still holding the Akaviri sword. She levelled it at Mehrunes Dagon. The Prince still sat upon his throne, but looked significantly less sure of himself than he had the first time Gylhain had pointed a weapon at him, only minutes earlier.

“ _How tragic,_ ” said Dagon, _“that you were forced to kill your friends in order to save Tamriel.”_

“Your tricks are pathetic,” said Gylhain. “You could replicate their bodies, but not their souls. Their true selves would have destroyed me in seconds. Vash would have incinerated me, Antario would have fried me. Falin would have paralysed me and Kureeth broken my bones. Dar’epha would have found every gap in my armour and never let me get close enough to touch her. And Kara . . . Kara has more willpower and drive than you could ever hope to replicate.”

Silence reigned over the Deadlands. The fake bodies bled for a moment, then crumbled to dust. Gylhain exhaled and allowed herself some relief: she had been right. But the images remained in her mind. Vash burning alive in the lava. Dar’epha broken and bleeding. She had done these things, and had been willing to do them if it had gotten her what she wanted.

“Close the gate,” she demanded. “Send me back.”

“ _Your reckoning will come, Dragonborn,”_ spoke Dagon. “ _And I will be there to claim your soul.”_

“You and a hundred others,” retorted Gylhain. She turned to leave. The world shifted with a huge crack and instead of the descending spiral stair, the gate stood before her, pulsing still.

“ _This is not over!”_ bellowed Mehrunes Dagon. “ _Tamriel will fall to me one way or another!”_

“Maybe another way,” conceded Gylhain. “Maybe one day there won’t be anyone like me, like the Champion of Cyrodiil, to stop you. But not this way.”

She turned and hurled the Akaviri sword at Dagon, the blade lodging in his red chest. The Prince paid it no mind, still bellowing vows of destruction. Gylhain ignored him and, seeing the gate start to flicker, leapt through.

* * *

 

There was no cheer to greet her return to the dirt of Helgen. Only Dar’epha and Vash, standing closer than they should have been. Gylhain flinched away from them, glad they could not see her face.

She turned back towards the gate, saw it flicker again and shrink, its energies moving slower and slower. Finally, it winked out. Here, there was a cheer, and several exhausted smiles could be seen among the defenders. Gylhain could not muster one in return.

In the east, shafts of light were already edging across the horizon, cautious, as if unsure of whether it was time for them to appear. Gaining confidence, they cast their brilliant rays into the cold sky. A new day began to dawn.


	46. Epilogue: Loose Ends

Brynjolf explained, in weary curtailed tones, what had happened during Gylhain’s absence. How Kureeth had taken command. How Falin had saved countless lives. The waves that Gylhain had been unable to halt entirely had indeed surfaced on the other side of the gate, but none had escaped. Nor had any Thalmor, since they had scoured the town for remnants. But the toll still hung over them.

Raddin, Vodus, and Miles, of the Legion. Cynric Endell and Maul, of the Guild. Ria, of the Companions. Uthgerd, of Whiterun.

None had escaped without injury. Faralda could not walk. Iona was missing a hand. Rune stilled limped and Etienne cradled his gut. Hulgar sported burns down his right side. There were others, countless wounds and broken bones.

Gylhain cursed after she heard the names. She tore her helmet off and flung it across the ruins. She vanished after it and reappeared with it back on. She strode over to the headman’s block, picked it up and hurled it away. Just another piece of rubble.

“Somebody get me a shovel,” she said.

Somebody did. She began to dig, and was joined by Kureeth. Together, they dug the seven graves required in the shadow of a broken tower, on the very ground where Gylhain had almost met her own demise. The others chipped in to ferry the bodies, gathering round as the last, Uthgerd, was interred. Stones were salvaged from the walls of the town, and Vash magically inscribed the names and deeds of the fallen.

With everyone assembled, battered, bloody, and weary, the Dragonborn seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Under her helmet, she even opened her mouth. But no words came. She pushed through the motley group and exited the town through the small western doorway—the same way she’d entered during the assault.

Dar’epha threw a look at Vash, and they both hurried after her, catching up halfway down the hill.

“It’s not your fault,” said Vash. Gylhain stopped and half-turned, her feet uneven on the steep path.

“Maybe not,” said Gylhain, “but I’m going to blame myself anyway.” She turned and looked down the hill.

“We was gonna come in again,” said Dar’epha. “To find you.”

Gylhain looked down the hill. “Nobody should have to brave Oblivion twice,” she said. “Thank the others for me. Send them home.”

She moved off down the hill and did not look back.

* * *

 

A week went by before anybody saw the Dragonborn. When she did resurface, it was in the last place anyone who knew her would have expected: Markarth.

Dressed in simple fur and leather, with no weapon and her head bare, she announced herself at the gates and demanded entrance to the city. The guards got angry, but Gylhain did not. She waited and waited, past the time when any other would have risen in fury or abandoned the enterprise.

The days dragged on and it became clear that Jarl Igmund had no intention of granting her the private audience she requested. She considered railing at the walls of Markarth, vowing never to set foot in their hold again. It was not worth it, but there was one thing she wanted from Vlindrel Hall: her books. She headed east, in search of an old friend.

In a hut north-west of Rorikstead, she found him: Argis the Bulwark. Once Gylhain’s housecarl, now recruited for one last favour. He headed west and Gylhain headed north, taking her time.

* * *

 

She made her way quietly through the capital to Castle Dour. Within, she sought Legate Rikke. She thanked the career soldier for her service at Helgen and shared commiserations for the fallen. Then, the Dragonborn officially resigned her commission with the Imperial Legion.

“You know we might not have done it without you,” said Rikke.

“The war?” said Gylhain. “You would’ve won even without my extra killing.”

Rikke shook her head. “You did more than just fight,” she said. “We still get new recruits talking about you. You’re a damned legend, Gyl.”

“No,” said Gylhain. “I’m just unlucky.”

She left the castle and, knowing that Jordis would be happier without her old Thane barging into her home life, went straight to the Blue Palace. There, she was surprised to discover Antario in conversation with Elisif.

Gylhain made her farewell and escaped before Elisif could heap any further honours upon her. Almost out of the gate, Antario caught up with her. The Altmer’s robes were once again resplendent, a deep red and black pattern with silver trim. She suspected Radiant Raiment would find a fine customer in Antario. The golden sword he’d brought back from Oblivion still hung at his side.

“You are truly leaving, then?” he asked.

“Yeah,” replied Gylhain. She knew she at least owed her friends the respect of a proper goodbye. “Haven’t decided where. I’ll think of something. What are you doing in court, anyway?”

“Elisif is considering ejecting the Thalmor from Skyrim,” said Antario. Multiple expressions warred on his face for a moment. “She asked for my advice on manoeuvring through the quagmire that is this area of politics.”

“So Helgen’s already being told, is it?” asked Gylhain.

“Indeed,” said Antario. “There are numerous versions, but too many witnesses to dismiss as a hoax. Songs are being composed as we speak, no doubt. Vash has expressed interest in writing an account of our journeys through Oblivion.”

He left a space but Gylhain filled it with a different topic.

“And what’ll you do now?”

“Truly, I do not know,” said Antario. “I will be needed here for a while longer, I think, but . . . Skyrim has a way of sinking into one’s skin. I find myself loath to leave its borders.”

Gylhain smiled and wished she could shake the dregs of that same feeling. “Where’d the others end up?” she asked.

“Vash returned to his College. Kureeth and Falin accompanied him, I believe she seeks enrolment and he employment. Dar’epha returned to her Guild. Kara . . . I have not seen. She disappeared from Helgen shortly after you. I believe her trip to Oblivion may have had a deep psychological effect on her.”

Gylhain grunted. “I’ll ask around for her,” she said. “Good luck to you, Antario.” They shook hands warmly.

“And to you, Gylhain,” replied her friend.

* * *

 

Gylhain headed south-east. In Breezehome she retrieved a much-travelled map of Skyrim, not something she’d needed for a long time. She marked several locations on it, then flipped the parchment over to make some notes on the back. She folded it into a pocket and made sure all her chests and cupboards were locked as securely as she could manage.

In Whiterun she sat under the Gildergreen for a time and watched the people passing by through what had been her favoured city. Many greeted her as they passed, some referenced events at Helgen. She hauled herself up to Dragonsreach. Balgruuf was indisposed, so Gylhain thanked Irileth for coming to Helgen and let her pass on the message: she was leaving, indefinitely. Breezehome was to remain untouched, however.

Up at the Skyforge, she spoke to Aela, Farkas, and Vilkas. The latter brother now sported one white eye and a deep scar down his face, but otherwise they all appeared well.

“You’re the Harbinger this place deserves, Aela,” said Gylhain.

The woman crossed her arms and grunted. It was improper for her to simply agree, but that was obviously what she thought.

“Stay sharp, Gyl,” said Farkas. There was much clasping of wrists and promises of future tales. Descending past Jorrvaskr, she noticed several of the newer Companions did not even recognise her. She turned south-east again.

* * *

 

In the wilds north of the Rift, she called Odahviing.

“Know that I will not hear your call if you are too far beyond Skyrim’s borders, Dovahkiin,” said the great dragon, fanning their wings over the hot springs.

Gylhain nodded. In truth, it would be nice to go to a place where she had no associations, no networks of old foes and allies.

“But,” continued Odahviing, “I have always believed you perfectly capable of managing without my aid.” They paused. “Will you speak to the Greybeards, before you go?”

“No,” said Gylhain. “They’d just try to tell me about my duty or some such. Just keep yourself and Paarthurnax away from the Blades. They’re not the sort to give up easily.”

After her draconic friend launched away, Gylhain headed for Riften. It was dark by the time she reached the city. Night had fallen over the wooden bridges and narrow alleys. But the people she wished to see kept just that sort of hour. Pressing the appropriate button, she descended into the cistern of the Thieves Guild.

Warm smiles and claps on the back from the older members greeted her. She made her way, slowed down by small talk, to the Ragged Flagon. There the usual crowd was spread out, telling tall tales, this time of Helgen.

Delvin, Vex, Brynjolf, Vekel, Tonilia, Sapphire, and Dar’epha. She explained to them all what she was doing. They understood that she couldn’t live the life she’d lived forever. Delvin convinced her, however, not to formally cut ties with the Guild, as they had members and contacts all over.

“You never know when you’ll need a friendly face,” Delvin put it. They stayed up for hours, drinking and swapping tales. Dawn not far away, Gylhain made her excuses and moved out. Dar’epha caught up to her in the tunnel through to the cistern. Wordlessly, she pulled her friend into a hug.

“Look after yourself,” she said, her scars bright in the lantern-light. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Maybe,” said Gylhain. “But I’m sure you’ll be able to find me, wherever it is.”

Dar’epha looked back towards the Flagon. Gylhain understood.

“Try not to get caught,” she said, already moving away.

“I never do,” said Dar’epha.

* * *

 

She ran into Kureeth leaving Whistling Mine. He was looking for work there, it seemed, but they did not speak as they walk through the snow to Winterhold and the College. Gylhain relished the silence but knew that to express that feeling was to ruin it. They climbed the icy bridge and the gate slid open for them. Kureeth seemed to know exactly where to go. Entering through the main door, they took the stairs on the right, winding up to the Arcanaeum.

Poring over a pile of stacked books were Vash, Archmage; Falin, newest student; and Onmund, librarian. All greeted the newcomers warmly. Onmund smiled and faded further back into the library to give the friends some space.

“I take it Argis came by, then,” said Gylhain.

“Laden!” said Vash. “This collection is incredible. The field journal of Sinderion the alchemist, three of the _Sixteen Accords of Madness_ , none of which I’ve seen before.”

“Tell him what you’re writing,” grinned Falin.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Vash, immediately contrite and unsure. “You wouldn’t want to . . . I mean, to contribute . . .”

“To your account of our journeys through Oblivion?” asked Gylhain. “Antario mentioned it.”

“Yes, it seems we all ended up in different realms,” Vash explained. “Antario promised to relate his section in full. Dar’epha has provided me with parts, though she said there were bits she couldn’t talk about. And Kara is nowhere to be found.” He looked at Gylhain expectantly.

She shook her head. “You’re on your own,” she said.

“With finding Kara or the book?” asked Falin.

“The book,” said Gylhain. “As for Kara, I’ll check her old haunts, but if she doesn’t want to be found, then that’s good enough for me.”

Vash nodded his understanding. “You are leaving?”

“Yes. Skyrim’s going to have to deal with its own problems for a while.”

“Will we see you again?” asked Vash.

“Probably,” said Gylhain. “I’m sure I’ll be drawn back for some crisis or other.”

There were smiles then. She gave Vash her map, marked with ruins that she thought he might find of interest, the notes on the back detailing the dangers within. Hands were shaken and farewells were made. Leaving her friends in the library to sort out their books and their lives, Gylhain left the College. She dawdled on the bridge, stared out at the Sea of Ghosts. It was a long way down.

She pulled her furs tighter around herself and went on.

* * *

 

The next day found the Dragonborn at Windhelm’s docks, walking aimlessly after speaking to Jarl Brunwulf, as well as Quintus and Torbjorn. No trace of Kara, even in her home city. She seemed to have vanished completely. Gylhain put it out of her mind. She was planning just such a disappearance herself, after all.

Gylhain espied a vessel she wasn’t familiar with, its crew outfitting for departure. She strode alongside the ship and hailed the captain.

“Where are you headed?” she asked. The captain didn’t recognise her, which was a nice feeling.

“To Solstheim!” answered the captain. “If you’re lookin for passage, you won’t find a finer vessel than my _Northern Maiden._ ”

The island of Solstheim. Gylhain had considered it as a destination, but had figured she’d need to trek over to Morrowind to find passage. Formerly an Imperial province, it had been gifted to Morrowind after Red Mountain erupted. Dunmer refugees flowed in, fleeing the disaster and the following Argonian invasion. Solstheim. It seemed as good a place as any.

“How much for passage?” asked Gylhain.

“Two hundred and fifty,” said the captain. A bit steep, thought Gylhain, but she counted it out anyway. She realised that this price would take half of the gold she had on her. She shrugged it off and handed the money over. She could survive on less than nothing, she knew.

“Are you sure?” asked the captain. “It can be a rough sort of place.”

“I’ve seen a few rough places,” replied Gylhain. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

“You look like you can, at that,” replied the captain. “Alright, you’ve got yourself a ship. We’ll cast off as soon as we can.” He set to loading the last few boxes on board. Gylhain lent him a hand, suddenly eager to be off.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Gjalund,” replied the captain. He pointed at the other two members of the crew. “Those are Lygrleid and Sogrlaf. And you? You look like a Breton, if you don’t mind me sayin so.”

“I was born there,” replied Gylhain. “My name is Gylhain. I guess I call Skyrim home now.”

The boxes loaded, Gjalund met her eyes. “Aye, it has a way of growin on you, doesn’t it?”

Gylhain chuckled, for the first time in weeks. She looked up at the dark stones of Windhelm, the dock workers going about their tasks. She turned to view the snowy peaks of the Veloth Mountains and the gently lapping White River.

“Yeah,” she said. “That it does.”


End file.
